


The Heart of Him

by ziamhaze



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, Professor!Zayn, Professors, Slow Burn, he’d hate me for putting that haha, sorta - Freeform, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:39:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 83,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22709365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziamhaze/pseuds/ziamhaze
Summary: As someone who’s dedicated their life to the field of art history, Zayn Malik knows that he’s not the most exciting of twenty-six year olds.  He loves museums, reading about Monet, and listening to podcasts about conspiracy theories.  The independent research project that he starts alongside his new job as a lecturer at Oxford is even lacking colour: prove that Leonardo da Vinci’s findings superseded the discoveries being made today.  He expects to come across a myriad of treasure troves shadowing inventors throughout the university, but nothing prepares him for what he finds in the surgical sciences department - PhD student Liam Payne, who has a charming smile and will stop at nothing to change the future of cardiology.  By shadowing Liam’s research, Zayn learns everything there is to know about the human heart, but what he finds even more valuable is discovering just how easy an introverted brainiac like him can be to love.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 25
Kudos: 93





	The Heart of Him

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is [that one AU ](https://ziamhaze.tumblr.com/post/185534232021/paynefulperiods-au-where-liam-and-zayn-are) that went around tumblr for while, but first:
> 
> I can’t say thank you enough to everyone for the kind words and attention for Z.A.Y.N.! I know it wasn’t the most exciting of fics, but like I wrote there, it was meant to be one huge poem, a statement on songwriting I really wanted to play around with. That being said, this next fic was very experimental for me as a writer; lots of little metaphors and weird symbolism throughout the whole thing. I had a hard time finding sentence structures this go around and I think that has a lot to do with me writing every single day for the past 9 months to turn out these fics as they come to me. When I started doing scene breakdowns for this fic I thought it was going to be near impossible to write and create a solid journey for the two main characters to go on, so I’m really proud of the fact that I finished it at all.
> 
> I owe so much to my beta reader Megan for taking the time to listen to me rant and ramble over this process and of course for editing the second draft!
> 
> You can all thank Megan for the AU that started all of this as well! I went ahead and added a little detail to it, but even that inspiration came from elsewhere - a National Geographic [instagram post](https://www.instagram.com/p/BylbG6BgDzQ/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) of all things. The man highlighted has written a real [text]book solely on da Vinci and cardiology, which I read about 75% of to get inspiration and research.
> 
> Disclaimers:
> 
> \- Every piece of medical information mentioned is accurate - how Liam’s research would work, how a biopsy is done, medical definitions, all smoking info/quitting side effects, etc.  
> \- Liam’s research is based off a complete original idea I gave him, but once I started doing my own research on if it was plausible, I found that it’s actually a hybrid of something that’s happening at Duke and Harvard  
> \- I have nothing against bioengineers, just needed a little humour in there and something for the smaller plot point at the end  
> \- Every remark Zayn makes about art is true - everything da Vinci related, artist methodologies, pieces of art described, the exhibit at the National Gallery, etc.  
> \- The three other projects Zayn is looking at in the Music, Engineering, Geography/Atmospheric, Oceanic and Planetary Physics departments are real and currently being undertaken as of Winter 2019/20 at Oxford
> 
> If anyone would like information on a particular factoid, please reach out and I’ll provide the link to whatever you'd like to learn more about.
> 
> While the songwriting fic took me hours upon hours to curate its songs, this fic took me just as long going through medical journals and textbook readings. So I hope you all learn a little something along this bookworm love story, and trust me, the titling for the sections will make sense soon enough...

ENO 

_Why are hospitals always so white? Innocence is out of the question, so then what? There aren’t any sort of battles going on within the walls, unless you count the unfortunates who are behind them fighting for life itself, but other than those valiant efforts, why not paint the walls red? Too cliche?_

“Mr. Malik?” 

Zayn’s eyes dart back to the receptionist in front of him, abandoning his inner analysis on the origin of medical centers’ blindingly white walls to attend to the woman that had called for his attention. 

“Dr. Twicken’s running late from a meeting, but he mentioned beforehand that if you got here early, you’re welcome to wait for him in his office. Down this hall,” the young female gestures to the corridor on her left. “Room 608.” 

Out of courtesy, Zayn sends the woman a closed mouth smile in reply. “Thank you.” 

As he walks down the specified hallway, the twenty-six year old’s pulled back into the mysterious lure of the whitewash that now encloses him within a narrow pathway. His light brown eyes trail over the room numbers and name tags of their inhabitants in between studying the walls’ lifecycle by way of picking out the poorly matched shades of white layered on top of one another. Maybe it’s a colour chosen without any purpose at all. Maybe when hospitals were becoming popular buildings, white was the cheapest paint available. The rich blues that saturate the royal portraits of the fourteenth century came to be due to the expensive pigment price indicating the wealth of the individual portrayed; it’s completely feasible that cost was the deciding factor and not a commentary on something else. 

**Room 608**

**William Twicken, M.D., Director of Surgical Sciences, Oxford University**

Peering into the door’s small window, Zayn can see a man going through a file cabinet on the right side of the room. 

He’s wearing a long white lab coat and a light blue shirt underneath, its collar peeking out above the uniform. Zayn can only make out half of his profile, but that’s enough to know that whosoever it is, isn’t Dr. Twicken; on top of looking nothing like the profile picture next to the Director’s bio on Oxford’s departmental directory, the man’s much too young to have thirty years of experience in cardiology. Hell, he hardly looks a day older than Zayn. 

The sound of the metal door handle being pushed down grabs the man’s attention, Zayn taking a few cautionary steps in once his slim figure can fit through the opening. 

“Dr. Twicken should be back any minute,” the man says as soon as he spends a split second clocking another presence in the room. 

Right as he’s about to respond, Zayn watches the man do a double take, the folders beneath his fingers forgotten. He’s got a much darker set of brown eyes than Zayn, although the black framed glasses they live behind is something they do share. 

A rush of worry comes over Zayn at the reaction. Immediately, he looks down at his deep green jumper, a white shirt underneath, as made evident by the collar that’s peaking out around his neck. No stains. He hasn’t had anything to eat recently, but Zayn still runs a hand around his short black beard to ensure it’s not a mess and the reason why the man had stopped in his tracks. The brown leather portfolio in his left hand starts to become sweaty from his tightening grip. 

“I can come back if you’re busy,” Zayn offers, breaking the momentary silence that’s been created. 

“No, it’s alright. I was just looking for some material for a lab I’m helping with.” Dazed - for what reason, Zayn’s not sure - the male looks to gather himself after a few seconds. “Liam,” he reaches out his right hand after pulling out the tan folder he was flicking through prior to Zayn’s arrival. 

As Zayn gives his name and clasps their hands together, he watches as Liam pushes up his glasses with the pointer finger of the hand that’s holding the folder. The longer that the two keep eye contact, the more Zayn picks apart the other’s features. 

He’s got a birthmark which resembles that of a splash of milk, yet its shade of brown matches Liam’s short brunette hair - shaved close on the sides with the top only a few centimeters long, chopped along the ends and sitting flat along his forehead. A short beard covers his cheeks and jawline, just like Zayn’s does. And while the circular framed glasses draw a lot of attention away from all of these things, Zayn doesn’t let it overshadow the softness that it contributes to Liam’s attraction. 

“Are you a professor as well?” 

Switching the folder into his right hand once it’s free from Zayn’s grasp, Liam shakes his head. “No, I’m-” 

“Professor Malik, I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” 

Both men turn their heads towards the voice. Dressed in a pair of professional black trousers and a crisp grey shirt, Dr. Twicken motions for the two younger males to take a seat in the chairs opposite his ergonomic one behind the room’s large chestnut desk. 

Before he sits down, Zayn sneaks a peak to his side. His meeting wasn’t secretive, and the doctor is certainly the one doing _him_ a favour, but Zayn hadn’t been briefed on the fact that this would be a chat for three. If Liam’s hesitancy in claiming the right chair as his own is anything to go by, Zayn would venture to guess that he didn’t plan on attending either. 

“I wasn’t here for long, it’s no problem.” With his second formal handshake out of the way, Zayn takes a moment to decide if he should keep the work that he brought on his lap, or if he should jump right into why he was there, so as to not take up too much time in the doctor’s busy schedule. 

“I see you’ve met Liam,” the older man, Zayn estimates somewhere in his fifties - the light grey stubble and indented lines around the edges of his temple, paired together with his years of experience, give way to his age - points out with a nod of his chin in the named male’s direction. 

“Just briefly.” 

A creek of the chair next to him tells Zayn that Liam’s shifted uncomfortably at being spoken _about_ , rather than to. 

“Lucky timing,” Dr. Twicken says, leaning back in his seat. “I was going to send you his way after we spoke. I think what he’s working on is the perfect type of innovative science that you seem to be looking for.” 

Twisting his shoulders to the right, Zayn opens his body up to both men, not wanting to make Liam feel left out any since it’s become clear the other young male wasn’t just invited to stay out of courtesy. One glance over, and he can see Liam’s already angled himself in a welcoming manner. He can also make out the exact moment when excitement fully consumes Liam, hearing that something he’s passionate about, might be of use to someone else. 

“I’m a second year PhD student,” he starts off with when the doctor hands him the floor. “My research revolves around heart tissue regeneration.” The light doesn’t leave Liam’s eyes, but Zayn interprets the small pause he takes as him testing Zayn on how much he knows about the world of cardiology. Truth be told, he knows practically nothing about anatomy at all, much less cardiac surgical sciences, but Liam’s too enthused for Zayn to admit that and ruin what looks to be a snowball gaining great traction. “This year, using the same procedure as a regular biopsy, I plan on taking healthy tissue samples from volunteers, and cultivating an environment where they can grow as they normally might were they still attached to a heart.” The folder that was laying on Liam’s thighs gets smashed into the crease of the chair’s cushion as the man turns even more towards Zayn in fervor. “The goal is to sustain the tissue’s life outside of its normal habitat and use the final product as an alternative treatment to heart transplants. As soon as the tissue reaches a size where it can wrap around the majority of a heart, we’ll test it to see if it’s placed around one, can it kick start a damaged or failing heart to regenerate its own healthy tissue? Essentially, the heart will fix itself and eliminate the need for a transplant or bypass, which in turn would lower the amount of people on waiting lists, and hopefully eradicate the need to wait for a matched organ donor to die.” 

Zayn’s not entirely sure what to say to that. On one hand, Liam had managed to speak simply enough that he followed along fully, but on the other, it sounded a bit too good to be true. If Liam could achieve what he’s set himself out to, the result could change the medical field forever. 

“That’s…” Trailing off, Zayn keeps his eyes glued on the researcher, who’s just about on the edge of his seat waiting to hear what Zayn thinks of his dedicated topic of choice. For someone who looks to be around Zayn’s age, Liam’s sure got the energy of an eager first year undergrad student, ready to save the world. In a way, it’s endearing. “Amazing. That’s really amazing.” 

In the background, Zayn can hear Dr. Twicken agree and explain how it’d be as much of a breakthrough for surgery as Zayn had imagined it would be, but he spares a couple extra seconds watching small creases form along the edges of Liam’s eyes at the praise he’s received from a practical stranger. 

“Now correct me if I’m wrong,” the doctor continues, grabbing Zayn’s attention once more, “but from what I got out of your email, a project like Liam’s would be a good fit.” 

Right away, Zayn nods in approval. “I’m a lecturer in the History of Art department,” he discloses, aware that Liam’s out of the loop, and therefore deserves proper filling in on what the other two keep referencing. “At Oxford.” The small addition seems unnecessary given the city with the same name they live in, is inhabited by practically only those involved with the university, but Zayn still feels the need to clarify, just in case. “Along with teaching, I’m working on my own independent research about Leondardo da Vinci and his early influence on the future of tomorrow.” Liam’s eyes dance with curiosity. “Oxford’s broken up into four academic divisions: Humanities, Maths and the Physical and Life Sciences, Social Sciences, and Medical Sciences. I’m picking one or two innovations being pursued in each and comparing it to an early idea of da Vinci’s. Odds are, he came up with the foundation work of what each project is based on, well before the credited inventors discovered them.” 

Almost left forgotten, Zayn’s portfolio is being opened and laid on the doctor’s desk for all three to observe. “From what you’ve told me, I’d most likely compare what you’re doing to the advanced methods he used creating models of the heart, since - and correct me if I’m wrong,” Zayn instructs Liam seriously, “it seems like part of what you’d be proving is how a specific surgical procedure - the biopsy - can be used for something other than what it was initially intended for. 

“Yeah,” Liam confirms with a pleasantly surprised smile. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.” 

Rather than get caught up in the way the male’s turned up lips aid in Liam’s overall warmth, Zayn continues on. “I’d also probably talk about how he discovered the first case of heart disease, considering you’re potentially eradicating death by heart disease altogether.” 

“William Fredrich was the first to discover what causes artery disease,” Liam comments in a perplexed tone. 

“The scientific community acknowledges Fredrich as the first,” Dr. Twicken interjects, “but da Vinci beat him to it.” 

“By 173 years.” 

Zayn’s addition looks to astonish Liam, but it’s nothing in comparison to how his jaw nearly drops when Zayn’s pointing to his open portfolio. Spread across two black and white photocopied pages are scribbled notes taken from Leonardo’s journals showing concrete proof that he was in fact, first. 

“So why the false credit?” 

“Most of his work wasn’t published in his lifetime,” Zayn explains as an answer to Liam’s question. “So it’s not false credit, as much as it is people not knowing da Vinci’s work even existed. His things weren’t published until 1952.” 

“Noone knew about his work until the twentieth century?” In disbelief at what he’s being told, Liam trades off looking between the doctor and teacher with wide eyes. “How is that possible?” 

A small, humoured smile comes over Zayn’s face, just like it has every other time he’s stated facts like that about the famous artist to other academics and received similar reactions. “Publication wasn’t da Vinci’s primary concern with whatever subject he was investigating. He simply loved to learn for the sake of learning.” Zayn keeps speaking while he watches Liam start to flip through the rest of the historical notes he’s brought with him, “Perhaps he thought about publishing them eventually, for the betterment of society, but he never got around to it. A lot of his notes are concise, but if you take the time to properly read them, they’re very free flowing; he didn’t necessarily have anything he was _trying_ to prove. It was all just to satisfy his own curiosity.” 

Liam stops at an incredibly detailed sketch of the heart and bronchial vessels, leaning over the page to get a better view. His expression reads of awe as he takes in the thin, hairline markings that are as accurate as if they were the real thing and not a sketch done under candlelight with a quill and ink. “If we had this sort of information at the time he found it, who knows where science would be now.” 

“Ah, but then what would you have to research?” The doctor sends Liam a light hearted expression along with his challenging words, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Whether you’d like to work with Liam or another student, I’m comfortable giving you access to our facilities for however long you need in order to gain insight for your writing. I can approve your faculty badge to be programmed to allow you into the Oxford research rooms here in the hospital and at the Old Road campus, in case you need to visit there too. So long as you sign the necessary paperwork stating that you’ll only enter said areas accompanied.” 

Thrilled by the offer, Zayn can feel himself start to smile in satisfaction. “That would be wonderful. Thank you so _so_ much.” While Dr. Twicken starts to click around on the computer that takes up the right side of his desk, Zayn turns to look at Liam once more. “You and your team would be getting full acknowledgment any time I reference your work. I’d include all of your contact information at the end if you wanted me to as well, no problem.” 

He’s not usually the type to beg; that’s definitely not Zayn’s style. He’s the one to play it cool on the outside, no matter if his heart’s racing like a hummingbird underneath his jumper, or the stakes are as high as they are right now. But with Liam’s thesis being a better fit than Zayn could’ve thought up himself, he’s willing to break character if it means getting the PhD student on his side. Not only did Liam’s project provide ample room for Zayn to make several arguments pertaining to da Vinci, it could also make his name well known, should it wind up making history; no one else was covering it, which means he’d be the first, art history context or not. 

“Oh it’s just me, no team, but that’d be ace!” With a face splitting smile so large that it forces his eyes to bunch up, Liam starts to fish something out of his black trouser pocket. “I’d be honoured to be a part of something like this. Let me just,” he unlocks his phone that he’s produced from inside the polyester bottoms, “check my calendar to see when we can meet.” 

While the male does as he says, Zayn closes up his portfolio, relieved at having snagged the picture perfect researcher without needing to break out his persuasion skills, but also shocked at the small piece of information that Liam brushed over. 

“How does Wednesday sound?” 

When Liam looks up from his phone, Zayn stares on in incredulity. “You don’t have a team? It’s just you?” 

“And Dr. Twicken,” Liam points out. 

“I mainly just proof what he does,” the man clarifies before his mentee has the chance to write off his brilliance with modesty. “And give insight where needed, but it’s mainly all Liam.” 

Unable to hide behind humility, the student shrugs his shoulders bashfully. “I don’t mind being a two man team.” 

Smart, unpretentious, and good looking - the holy grail that everyone looks for, but never receives. 

“Wednesday,” Zayn repeats when he can see the elongated silence is causing Liam to become even more uncomfortable than the praise had already made him. “As long as it’s in the morning,” he says after taking a second to channel his mental calendar and see if the proposed day is clear. “I have a class in the afternoon.” 

Hearing Liam reply, “I can do morning” makes Zayn pick out the pen that’s in one of the designated straps on the inside cover of his portfolio. 

“Nine?” He asks without looking up, jotting down the time when he’s met with a verbal agreement. 

**Wed Nov. 6th - meeting with Liam**

Zayn’s pen stops abruptly. “What’s your surname?” 

“Payne.” 

**Wed Nov. 6th - meeting with Liam Payne, PhD heart student @ 9**

The leather binder finds its way back onto Zayn’s lap when he finishes his short note. “Do you know the gym on St. Ebbes street?” Nodding, Liam punches the details into his phone. “The History of Art faculty offices are above it, on the top floor, suite nine.” 

“Got it,” Liam confirms, the light in his eyes still bright with excitement when they meet Zayn’s again. “Should I bring anything?” 

“Yes,” Dr. Twicken answers for Zayn, his typing having ceased moments before. “It’ll be easier for the two of you if Professor Malik-” 

“Please, call me Zayn,” the teacher interrupts kindly. “I’m just a lecturer.” 

Unphased by the correction, the older man continues with his comment. “I’ve just put in a request to have a Nuffield key card made for you,” Dr. Twicken directs to Zayn. “It’ll be more convenient that way instead of taking your faculty card and having it reprogrammed. Liam can give it to you when he sees you next week.” 

The music department could learn a thing or two from the surgical sciences. They were nice enough people, and the researchers he had spoken to there were on board with Zayn’s proposal to survey the Electronic Music Practice RESearch group’s work for the remainder of the school year, but they definitely demanded he sign in every time he visited their building. And that was _on top_ of their strict access to begin with. Being awarded his own card for the Nuffield department _and_ an overly keen, boyishly handsome academic, is way too good to be true. 

“Along with medical disclaimers that I’ll print out for you to sign,” the doctor adds. 

“I’ve got a few of my own that I’ll have ready as well.” Not wanting to take up any more of the other two’s time, Zayn stands and distributes another round of handshakes. “Thank you again for allowing me the opportunity to shadow what’s going on in your department.” 

With a strong grip, Dr. Twicken grins lightly. “It’s my pleasure. Your idea is quite original, and I think it’s important for others to be enlightened by how much da Vinci did for cardiology. Like how Liam was.” 

“Yeah, I wish I would’ve known about what you told me sooner,” the student agrees, leaving his own folder stuck in the seat behind him when he stands. “I’m intrigued to hear about the other things he was first to discover.” 

“It’s a long list, so I hope you’re patient,” Zayn jokes, looking between the man’s honey brown eyes. 

“Don’t worry about that, I’m as patient as they come.” 

All Zayn can do is smile and cross his fingers that Liam’s not lying. _With a project based around heart surgery, you better be_ , he thinks. _I’m hopeless when it comes to anything remotely scientific._

Before he turns around to exit the office, he catches Liam pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. 

_And that. I can be hopeless for that too._

OWT 

Piping hot coffee slides down Zayn’s throat and warms his insides, tongue long since burnt by the cup prior. 

It’s 8:55 AM and the educator’s seriously considering getting up from behind his desk and locking his office door so he can take a kip on the couch that’s situated against the room’s left wall. He couldn’t be called unprofessional if it was only for fifteen minutes. That’s all he needs until the morning’s second round of caffeine hits. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

It was a nice fantasy while it lasted. 

“Is it alright if I come in?” Liam’s head pokes through the small gap in the door that’s widened thanks to the pressure of his knuckles hitting the wood. 

All Zayn can muster up is a “yeah” in reply, but as soon as Liam accepts his invitation and steps through the room’s threshold, he’s feeling a bit more alert. 

Unlike the last time he saw the man, Liam’s dressed down entirely. He’s got a pair of dark blue jeans on instead of smart trousers, and a plain white t-shirt underneath a grey bomber jacket. It’s the kind of outfit that a preppy jock might wear, not an Oxford PhD student that probably had an IQ that puts him in Mensa. With the breaking of stereotypes and early timing, Zayn’s fascinated by this Liam Payne. 

“You alright?” He greets once the man’s closed the door behind him and picks the right chair in front of Zayn’s desk to sit in. 

“Good, yeah,” Liam smiles widely, and it’s then that Zayn notices more than the other’s ensemble; his skin doesn’t look bogged down by the early hour of the day like Zayn knows his does, it looks as awake as ever. 

Feeling slightly insecure about his own appearance now that he’s in front of someone who’s practically radiating, Zayn takes another sip of his coffee and hopes for the best. “Didn’t have any problem finding the place then?” 

“Not at all,” Liam responds quickly. “I always cut through the side street next to this building to get to Sainsbury’s. Besides, Oxford’s a pretty small place. It’s hard to get lost.” 

A short chuckle falls from Zayn’s lips, “Says who? I’ve been here less than a month, and I’ve had to count on walking directions from my maps app to get me around more times than I’d like to admit.” 

“You’re new to town?” 

There’s pure intrigue in Liam’s tone and expression at the discovery that Zayn reveres. It was a simple fact derived from inference, yet it seemed to fascinate Liam as if it was something much grander. 

“Only moved up from London two weeks before the first day of term,” Zayn answers, watching Liam transfer the small black backpack that he brought with him, from the floor, to the unoccupied chair on his left. 

“Where’d you teach there?” 

“Oh no,” Zayn’s quick to correct, his eyes snapping over to Liam’s. “I just finished my own PhD in July. This is my first position out of school.” 

Astonished, the medical student’s eyebrows shoot up. “Your first teaching job is at Oxford?” 

“I still don’t believe it’s real,” Zayn chuckles. “And yet, we’re sitting in my office.” 

When the man’s eyes trail around the room that he still needs to get around to decorating, Liam’s’ follow. While the office might not be the largest, Zayn holds as much pride for it as if it was a one room mansion. It took him a hell of a lot of hard work to be able to have his name on the plaque outside, but he also isn’t blind to the fact that it’s just as much luck that impressed one of his PhD advisors so much, that she forwarded his final thesis to a friend. A friend that just so happened to now be his current boss. 

“So you must be around the same age as I am,” Liam surmises, bringing Zayn’s attention back to his presence. 

“Twenty-six.” 

Liam’s lips start to curl up, “Yeah, me too.” 

Curious as to just how close in age they are, Zayn states his specific month, “January.” 

“August,” Liam playfully frowns in response to not being any closer. 

For someone who just confirmed they were in their mid-twenties, Liam’s a lot more expressionative than those Zayn normally hangs around with. It ignites something within him. An innocence for life that he hardly ever taps into any more perhaps? Regardless of what it could be labeled as, Zayn takes note of it. 

“So what’d you do your PhD in?” 

He also takes note of how much the man likes to ask questions. 

“Do you know how, in history, things are referred to within ‘periods’?” Zayn can feel himself start to automatically fall into lecture mode, so he keeps it brief. “Like the Victorian period or the Bauhaus movement?” 

Liam nods, “Mhmm.” 

“I looked at the art that was produced during the years _around_ the definitive start and end dates of various periods.” Since it’s difficult to figure out what’s going on in the other’s head, Zayn takes Liam’s silence as a sign to keep talking. “I wrote about the blurred identity that the pieces wound up having as a result of their being made during those times of transition.” 

Before he reaches for his backpack, Liam sends Zayn a humoured look. “Basically the opposite of mine then.” 

“Twicken doesn’t have to be worried about me breaking anything or exposing your work,” Zayn promises, wondering what it is Liam’s trying to find. “I wouldn’t put it past me to cause some sort of radioactive chemical spill if I take my hands out of my pockets in a lab.” 

“Keep you far away from test tubes,” Liam reminds himself aloud. “Got it. Before I forget…” Out of his backpack comes a thin folder. “These are the papers that you need to sign.” 

Taking the packet out of the pockets, Zayn scans the words and what’s being asked of him. It all looks standard - health disclaimers, financial responsibility for equipment, privacy upholding. 

“Do you have a favourite era of art?” 

As soon as he’s on the second page, Zayn answers Liam’s question. “It’s a toss up between Avant-Garde and the Italian Renaissance.” 

“Now seems like the right time to tell you that the last time I took an art class was in primary school.” 

Looking up from the contract, Zayn takes in the younger male’s unashamed expression and accompanying grin. Normally, people never dared to admit what they didn’t know, especially those in academia, nevermind a prestigious institution like Oxford. Because of that, Zayn’s more than surprised that one of its most gifted students is so comfortable confessing his downfalls. 

“Avant-Garde refers to experimental, contemporary pieces and the Italian Renaissance…” Zayn trails off, trying to come up with an elegant way to do the period justice, but fails to do so. “Well that’s a little self explanatory. Art from Italy during the Renaissance, which was around 1400-1575.” 

Liam rests one leg over the other, “No love for the middle of the timeline?” 

“You asked me for my favourites, so I gave you my favourites.” Proud of his sarcastic comeback, Zayn returns to examining the papers on his desk. 

“Does Leonardo fall into the Renaissance section?” 

“He does.” Flip, page three. “If it weren’t for me sleeping through my alarm on the day I had to pick my specialist course for my master’s, I wouldn’t have had to wait four years to study him in depth.” 

“I don’t think I’d ever be able to forgive myself if that happened to me.” 

Looking up from the last page, Zayn meets eyes with Liam behind both of their glasses. “I bought myself a new pair of frames to cushion the blow.” 

“Are those them?” Liam asks, tapping the metal that fit around his ears to reference what he’s talking about. 

“Ah, no.” Instinctively Zayn reaches up to feel his pair. “These are two purchases later.” A distant smile comes to his lips at the memory that’s brought to the front of his mind. “Those only lasted for about a year. My little sister sat on them.” 

“Mate,” Liam sits up straighter with his own lighthearted smile, “ever had your dog eat a pair?” 

Quiet chuckles fill the office. “Somehow, I’ve managed to avoid that one.” 

“Had to take him to the vet to get his stomach pumped and monitored until it passed,” Liam relays with a pained expression. “Thankfully it was just the frames and not the lenses.” 

The image has Zayn wincing. “How long did it take?” 

“Only a day, thank god,” the other sighs while studying Zayn as he goes back to picking apart the last page of the agreement. 

“I’d have a heart attack if that happened to my dog growing up.” Just the thought of his childhood boxer Bruno giving him a scare like that makes Zayn count his blessings. 

“I was a nervous wreck,” Liam confesses. “Didn’t sleep the whole time.” 

Focused in on the last few words of the paper, the teacher speaks with a preoccupied tone. “Well at least he’s alright now.” 

“Yeah, he’s all good.” A few seconds of silence fill the office before Liam speaks up once more. “I like those replacements though. They fit your face well.” When Zayn peers up from where he’s just signed his name next to that day’s date, he catches the small blush that paints Liam’s high cheekbones. “Thin frames are always too wiry for me.” 

Instead of responding straight away, Zayn quickly unpackages the compliment that he was just given. So the genius cardiologist thought something of him… Noted. 

“No, I think the thicker ones are better,” Zayn agrees, taking his time to appreciate the wide, black, circular frames that sit on the bridge of Liam’s nose. “Accentuates your bone structure,” he adds, wondering if the anatomical nature of his own compliment would go unnoticed by the medical student. 

Taking the signed packet from Zayn’s hands, Liam casts his eyes downward, “Thanks.” The older man hardly has any time to recognize the shyness before Liam’s enthusiastic side is kicking back in. “And in exchange, I present to you, one Nuffield Department of Surgical Sciences ID card.” 

The shiny rectangle that Liam’s pulled out from his backpack feels oddly special in Zayn’s hand. 

“They just used the picture that was already in the system from when you got your faculty card.” 

Sure enough, the photo in the top right hand corner matches the one on the card in the third fold of his wallet. His line of vision moves down to the ‘Temporary Research Associate’ title under his full name. 

“Sadly, all I can offer you for signing _my_ disclosure is a smile,” Zayn comments after flicking the card that’s between his pointer and middle finger, with his thumb. 

While Zayn pulls out his wallet from the center drawer of his desk, Liam shrugs, “That’s much more valuable than a piece of plastic.” 

“Some would argue you on that,” the teacher counters as he picks one of the few free slots he has in the leather accessory. 

“I’m confident in my debate skills.” 

Liam’s bold tone draws Zayn’s eyes back up. There, he’s met with poised facial features, ready for however Zayn decides to react. Because of that, the older male’s tempted to put Liam’s words to the test, but he doesn’t want to rush figuring out the interesting parts of the PhD student just yet. 

“So,” Zayn pivots, “what made you want to go into cardiology research?” 

“It wasn’t always the plan.” After zipping up the larger pocket of his bag, Liam relaxes into his seat and gives the man behind the desk his full attention. “I was going to be a surgeon originally.” 

A snort nearly comes from Zayn at the mentioned career path. As if this guy wasn’t already someone to be impressed by. 

“Wasn’t hard enough for you?” Zayn teases, half-serious, half-testing to see if that’s actually the case. 

“I don’t know, I never got to the practical part of my training,” Liam starts off casually. “I went to Imperial for my medicine degree.” 

_Good god_ , Zayn thinks to himself once he hears the elite university name that damn near every academic in the world knew was just as difficult as Oxford to get accepted into for anything science related. 

“But when I started doing the clinical portion for the master’s part of the degree, I realized that becoming a surgeon was great, but the only way to _really_ make a difference in the field, is to lead research studies.” 

Zayn shakes his head in disbelief, “Even if I wanted to cure cancer, my brain wouldn’t ever be able to speak that language.” 

Proving to be incredibly humble, Liam barely entertains the remark with anything more than acknowledgment. “Yeah, I guess I’m lucky that I’ve always been quite good at science to be able to actually put my thoughts into action.” 

“And the heart’s just always been your favourite?” 

“Sort of, yeah.” Preparing himself for the coming explanation, Liam pushes up his glasses. “When I was really young, I was a competitive runner. I still like to run now. I go out for one nearly every morning to start my day.” Well that explains how well rested he looks - he’s a morning person who has endorphins wake him up instead of a cheap cup of Costa brew. “As I got more serious and started branching out from my local races, my coach began to teach me about what was going on inside of my body while I ran.” Liam’s right fingers start to tap against the chair’s arm, “To help with my breathing practices, and just overall knowledge. Which shows just how great of a coach he was, to force his athletes to learn all aspects of their sport.” 

“Yeah, I agree,” Zayn thinks aloud. 

“We spent a lot of time talking about heart rates and how to tap into wherever mine was in order to gauge how to push myself in the race,” Liam continues. “It seemed kind of like a cheat code of sorts, so I started to get obsessed with cardiology.” He smiles lightly, “It all just sort of grew from there.” 

“And now we’re what?” Zayn tilts his head in contemplation. “Ten years later?” 

“Around fifteen,” Liam clarifies, leaving the lecturer to do the math that the male would’ve been around eleven at the height of his running career. He could say something about how crazy it was for an eleven year old to fall in love with the inner workings of the human heart, but it was around that age that Zayn fell in love with the stories behind art, so he refrained from speaking his mind. 

“Fifteen,” he repeats, “and you’re attempting to eliminate the need for heart transplants.” 

Rather than verbally reply, Liam holds up the fingers that were previously tapping away out of boredom, in a crossed fashion as a sign of hope. 

Even though Zayn hasn’t known the other male for more than a total of thirty minutes between both encounters, his first impulse is to tell him that there’s nothing to wish for, it’ll happen. Except he doesn’t know that at all, not in the slightest. Oxford must see its viability though, otherwise they wouldn’t have accepted the man and his ambitious thesis proposal. And that’s enough for Zayn to naively believe in Liam’s dream. 

“Well I’m grateful to be able to witness at least part of the journey,” Zayn declares while searching around his desk for the single sheet of paper that _he_ needs to get signed. 

“How long do you think you’ll want to shadow me?” 

Notes on his own lectures get pushed around as Zayn continues to try and find what he’s looking for. It can’t be too deep, he only printed it out yesterday. “You’re going to be doing testing up until the end of the school year, yeah?” 

“Depending on how things go, but yeah. I figure I’ll take most of next year to write up the results and watch for any after effects.” 

Lifting up a paper towel from his morning’s bagel reveals the missing sheet and allows Zayn to go back to feeling calm. “My own plan is to use the summer to put together my findings for the year,” he says while sliding the paper and a pen over. “I’d like to submit it to various journals before next year’s Fall term starts and I get busy again.” 

Now leaning forward in his seat, Liam glances over the man’s form that outlines liabilities and future publishing agreements. “How many classes do you teach?” 

“This year I’ve agreed to teach two in the Fall, two in the Spring, and then act as a tutor during the Summer term for those doing thesis writing.” Zayn’s about to settle into a pause so that Liam can properly read over what he’s written, but there’s no need, the male’s scribbling his signature at the bottom of the page in the blink of an eye. Sure, his disclaimer wasn’t nearly as lengthy as what Liam had brought on behalf of the science department, but he expected a little longer of a read over than ten seconds. It was a good thing Liam chose medicine and not law as his field of choice. 

Clicking the ballpoint pen into retraction, Liam goes back to his relaxed position resting against the cushioned seat backing. “Which class is this afternoon?” 

“Lecture on the Italian Renaissance,” Zayn replies, surprised that the other managed to remember that that’s what he’ll be preoccupied with later in the day. “But solely within Venice and Florence.” 

“See, to **_me_** ,” Liam prefaces strongly, “that sounds like heart surgery.” 

The teacher’s right eyebrow arches in contest, “Except there definitely aren’t any lives at risk when I put together my powerpoints on church ceiling murals.” 

By the way the younger male pauses with a slow creeping smile before speaking, Zayn can tell he’s hit something within Liam. 

“Are faculty members a part of specific colleges or are you just-” 

Halting the other with an open palm, Zayn drops his good humoured attitude and turns sour. “I’ll stop you there,” he starts, already charged. “I was hired in the summer, and it’s the third week of term in November; I still haven’t gotten a solid grasp on what ‘colleges’ are and why they’re even necessary.” Zayn ignores the way Liam’s grin widens and weighs out his next questions with each hand as a single scale. “They refer to certain buildings, but then only certain students have been assigned to them. They can’t be departments because somehow it’s possible that language, biology, and english students can all be a part of one. So what are they? And why are they referred to as colleges? It’s stupid.” As he drops each hand dramatically, Zayn takes note of how much enjoyment the man across from him’s getting at his frustration over their school’s ridiculous student community system. 

“So, you’re **not** a part of one…” Liam cautiously puts out there, smile still present but in a more suppressed fashion. 

“My class today is at St. John’s College,” the older male provides begrudgingly. “My other year two lecture is in St. Peter’s.” 

Thankfully all Liam does is bite his tongue and nod in response, but his endearing smile makes Zayn feel obligated to ask what college _he’s_ a part of. “Are either of those yours, or do PhD students not have one?” 

“I’m technically assigned to Exeter College, but there’s a medical library elsewhere that I use, and I don’t live in halls,” Liam replies simply. “So the most I do is go to the postgrad socials they hold every once and awhile.” Taking a drink from his paper cup, Zayn can feel himself being watched. “You don’t find the rest of the town that confusing, do you?” 

“I’ve learned that it only takes about fifteen minutes to walk from the top of the city centre to the bottom,” Zayn says after swallowing his bitter coffee. “But like I said before, that hasn’t stopped me from getting lost.” 

“Yeah, there are a lot of smaller side streets everywhere that can get to be a lot.” The student’s eyes zone in on the red and white cup that’s back to sitting in front of the desk phone. “If you want, I can give you a few tips and tricks for the area. I’ve only been here for a year, but I know where you can get a much better cup of coffee than Costa.” Liam bites the inside of his cheek, “Unless you like drinking saturated dirt.” 

“Hey,” Zayn snaps playfully, wrapping his hand around the cup protectively. “I lived off this stuff during all of undergrad.” 

“Old habits die hard,” Liam easily placates. “I get it.” 

For someone he hardly knows, this random research student really knows how to keep Zayn on his toes. 

“But…” he hesitates, looking between Liam’s warm eyes as if they’ll let him know if what he’s about to propose is a good idea or if he should quit while he still can. “I’m not having to count pennies anymore, so it might be in my best interest to get help from a local.” 

Warmth turns to delight. “I’ve got quite the list of takeaway restaurants too.” 

Zayn exhales a short laugh, “I went looking for a research expert and I got myself a tour guide.” 

“I can be both,” Liam offers with such conviction, that the other can’t tell if he’s being serious or simply keeping with their quick pace. Either way, Zayn finds a surprising comfort to his allure. But Liam doesn’t need to know that. 

“Well, now that we’ve got the formalities out of the way,” the older man points to the paper with Liam’s signature on the bottom that he’s yet to put away, “we’re good to go on the former.” 

“You tell me where you want to start,” Liam invites, turning to his backpack. “I brought my abstract and extended proposal in case you wanted to take a copy. My flatmate broke the scanner part of our printer, so I couldn’t do it myself.” Out comes two pristine blue notebooks. “I’ve got my preliminary notes for the first sample procedure if you want to look over those too, but they’re quite technical.” Before he starts to flip through his work, Liam stops himself. “I’ve got the typed up versions of them if that’s easier for you though.” 

The fact that he’s being faced with more than one spiral notebook has Zayn taking a deep breath. It reminds him of how much information he had for his own PhD, the volume of Liam’s _preliminary_ notes scaring him just a bit. 

“Yeah, can you email it all to me?” Zayn requests, feeling an odd sense of relief when Liam puts the notebooks back into his bag. 

“Sure, of course.” 

Snapping back to reality, Zayn takes one of his business cards that he had made up with his office address, phone extension, and email from its holder in front of his mail tray and hands it across the desk. “With classes and the other three projects, I’ll do my best to look over it all by the end of the weekend.” 

“It’s a lot,” Liam grabs hold of the pen he used earlier and takes another one of Zayn’s cards. “So take your time, and just give me a call if you have any questions.” After flipping the cardstock over and scribbling down his phone number on the blank space, he hands it over. 

Thanking the other, Zayn reaches for his mobile that’s off to the side, and saves the number there so he doesn’t risk losing the small rectangle, which, with his poor organizational skills, is bound to happen. 

“So I’ll just wait to hear from you then?” Liam asks above the sound of a zipper being pulled. 

Once the words register, Zayn hastens his screen tapping to bring his attention to his computer monitor. The shaking of his mouse changes the screen from black to a blur of red and oranges that illuminate the sky beyond a darkened silhouette of a lighthouse and windmill. “Are you free Monday evening?” The lecturer hovers his mouse over the early week day on the calendar he’s just brought up in case Liam says yes. “Like around five?” 

There’s a short pause as the other thumbs through his own schedule. “Yep.” 

Right as he receives the green light, Zayn starts to create a new ‘event’. “For now, let’s meet then, and if I need more time to read what you send me, I’ll let you know.” 

“Do you want to meet at the hospital again?” Tucking away his phone into one of the pockets in his jacket, Liam shifts in his as if he’s ready to leave. “I can show you around the research lab that I work from.” 

“Yeah, that’d be perfect,” Zayn returns, hitting save on his scheduler right after. 

“Ace.” Bracing both hands on the arms of his chair, Liam pushes himself up. “I’ll see you then?” 

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, “sounds good.” 

“I’ll make sure to include a shortlist of coffee shops in the email too,” Liam vows, slinging his backpack over his right shoulder. “The fewer cups of soil, the better.” 

Staying seated feels odd with the pair’s different vantage points, so Zayn stands to give the man a solid handshake. “I’d like that,” he replies once the brief shake’s have ceased. “Thanks.” 

“Just don’t drink too much,” Liam instructs on his walk to the door. “‘S not good for your heart.” 

Still standing, Zayn stares at the male who’s now waiting, one foot in the hallway, one foot remaining in the office. He’s meeting Zayn’s gaze patiently, ready to completely drop his charming act if the older male tells him to do so. And yet, at the same time, Zayn can sense a magnetism in his expression that says he’d also play it up if given the go ahead. 

“Right,” Zayn responds nonchalantly, not yet ready to tip the scales one way or another. He can be petty like that, but only when he knows he’s got a sliver of the upper hand. “I’ll make sure to only drink in moderation.” 

With a tight lipped smile and single nod, Liam pushes the frames of his glasses up one last time before disappearing down the corridor. 

EERHT 

Maybe it’s because he went to an art history centric university out of college and stayed there all throughout his higher education that Zayn can sometimes forget that, while he’s incredibly intelligent in _his_ world of academia, practically all others require him to start at pre-teen level and work his way up. Luckily, his brain isgifted enough in its overall processing power, that the effort it takes to teach himself the basics of a new subject isn’t terribly miserable. Or so Zayn thought. Halfway through reading Liam’s first year of literary research, the lecturer raised his white flag. The one page abstract and proposal was palatable, but the second Zayn had opened up the next document that consisted of Liam’s concise notes and an index of sources as long as the dictionary, he knew his intelligence wouldn’t be able to get him through this one. Even after three hours of nonstop concentration and two mugs of strongly brewed tea, there was still one extremely confused Zayn. He did consider taking Liam up on his offer and calling him for clarification on...well, everything, but a quick glance at the clock and that thought went straight out the window - eleven on a Saturday night. Any normal person would be out enjoying themselves, or at the very least, having a relaxing night in to offset the craziness that weekdays carried. So instead of interrupting whichever Liam was partaking in, Zayn crafted a long list of extremely vague questions for Monday and prayed that he hadn’t gotten too far over his head exploring a topic so out of his grasp. 

Then again, maybe being so lost isn’t such a bad thing. It’s possible that da Vinci felt similarly while trying to satisfy his curiosity for the various areas of life that constantly enticed him from all different directions. Feeling confused and puzzled could be good; an authentic experience could bring a whole new depth to Zayn’s work. At least that’s what he continues to tell himself as he walks down the blinding white corridors towards the second floor Oxford Heart Centre. 

“Zayn!” 

The exclamation of his name causes Zayn to stop in his tracks and turn around. 

“I was just about to ring you,” Liam calls out from where he’s holding the lift at the end of the hallway, gesturing for him to hurry up and join him. 

Keeping his briefcase close to him, Zayn does his best to jog over to the metal doors in a timely manner. “Thanks,” he lets out to Liam and two other females whose attire give away their positions as nurses. Their looks of hostility for having to wait also give away their disapproval for the man. “Sorry,” Zayn adds quietly, grateful when the door closes soon after he’s inside. 

“The labs are on the underground floor,” Liam informs him as the lift starts to take them down. “The admin offices are pretty much all there is in the wing of that level. In the other, there are a few inpatient rooms and outpatient services. This floor,” he scoots to the side so the nurses can exit, Zayn doing the same, “is cardiac critical care.” The lift doors close too quickly for the older man to get much of an impression other than the fact that wall colours don’t seem to change floor to floor. “Ground floor is just general inpatient cardiology, and then sub-one,” Liam holds his hand out for Zayn to exit first when the lift comes to a halt and the doors open, “is staff only.” 

Dipping his head in thanks, Zayn takes the lead and starts to walk forward, though he waits for Liam to direct them once he realizes he’s got no idea where he’s going. 

“The major storage rooms for supplies and equipment are down here.” Confidence radiates off of Liam as he settles into familiar territory; a friendly lion showing off his kingdom. “There’re a few empty rooms that people use to sleep in if they’ve got a long shift,” he points to locked doors that they pass by. “Or to do other things.” Zayn turns his head to the side in time to see Liam raise his eyebrows humourously. “But you didn’t hear that from me.” He’s given a sturdy nod of trust and bitten back smile. “But most importantly,” the student stops in front of one of the last doors in the hallway, “this floor has the research labs.” 

Taking note of the door number, Zayn studies how Liam holds up the badge that’s attached to the navy blue lanyard around his neck, its short distance causing the man to have to bring himself close to the wall where the scanner’s secured. 

“Oh good,” the man rejoices as soon as the locks have been undone and the lights to the room flicker on automatically. “No one’s here. Sometimes people are in the back.” Zayn’s eyes follow where Liam points to the far left corner where there’s a door identical to the one they’ve just passed through. “This is one of the largest teaching hospitals in the country, which means lots of researchers - some part of the University and some not; the Heart Centre isn’t exclusively for students.” Zayn remembers from his early days of picking out projects to pursue, that John Radcliffe is one of the largest hospitals in Europe period. “It depends what day of the week it is, but it’s not usually busy at night.” 

Looking around at all of the different desks and various computer equipment has Zayn feeling as though he’s stepped straight onto a film set. _Am I going to need to wear a lab coat?_ It’s a comical thought, but when it sits in his mind for more than a few seconds, he wonders if he should take it seriously. As they pass the black desks that look to be made out of some sort of marble and accompanying black chairs, Liam doesn’t say anything about any extra attire that’s needed, so he keeps the question to himself. 

“We all have our own work areas,” Liam makes known the further they walk. “The team that uses these four desks are doing tests on reconstructive valves.” Making sure the briefcase that’s hanging from his shoulder doesn’t so much as swing in the desk for six’s direction, Zayn stares at the various metal contraptions sitting atop small pedestals. “This lot’s looking into customized methods for immunosuppression, and-” 

“What’s that?” 

Liam hardly misses a beat when he stops walking to give Zayn his attention and a broken down explanation of the word he’s just used. “Immuno, your immune system. And suppression…” 

“Suppression,” Zayn finishes for him with a cheeky smile, letting Liam know that his vocabulary could deduce that much without any help, it was the scientific implementation of the word that he needed help spelling out. 

“One of the problems with heart transplants is the possibility of your body rejecting it,” Liam starts in an easy tone. “It’s not likely, only 10% of patients pass away after the first year following a transplant, but that’s because of people like them,” he nods in the direction of the empty chairs they’re standing adjacent to, “who discover new medications patients can take that make it so that their immune system won’t attack the new organ. The medications suppress its instinct to automatically kill something foreign. They’re hoping to be able to tailor medications to patients with specific genes, that way the side effects are minimal, if at all present, and the likelihood of the new heart working properly stays at 100%.” 

Surprised by how he was able to fully understand that entire description, Zayn stands steady, appreciating how simply Liam can give explanations. The man’s got a patient expression that Zayn interprets as him waiting to see if the other’s got any questions or needs further clarification before moving on. One does present itself. 

“Wouldn’t that render your research useless?” 

A light laugh falls from Liam’s mouth, “First off, _if_ mine’s successful, it won’t become common practice for at least another fifteen or twenty years.” Obediently, the older male follows Liam down the open pathway made by the desks pushed up against the room’s right wall and the glass barrier to his left. It’s a look into where the actual experimentation takes place. Test tubes and beakers cover white table tops, along with microscopes and specimen cases. “And that’s being optimistic. It’s gotta be tested on rats, cows, sheep.” Liam’s open palm offers for Zayn to sit in one of the seats around the work area furthest from the door, the location allowing for Liam to have an extra desk against the back wall, which he’s set up with a desktop computer and miscellaneous paper trays. “Rats are often used as the first test subject for projects because of their availability and,” Liam pauses to take in Zayn’s reaction to his next words, “disposability really.” It’s a sad part of the hierarchy that living things are a part of, but a necessary one nonetheless, so Zayn hardly blinks an eye. “A cow’s heart is similar to the size of ours, so that’s the most practical. We use sheep to test a project’s viability for children or smaller patients.” 

“Leonardo used oxen,” Zayn contributes while taking off his coat and hanging it on the chair next to his that now also holds his bag. 

A spark of intrigue lights up Liam’s features. “Really?” 

Zayn nods, “Yeah, he would scavenge one from an ox that just died and then inject it with hot wax to create a mold. That way, he could replicate experiments he wanted to try on something realistic. I’m sure you know ox hearts are bigger than ours, but it was better than nothing.” From the younger man’s excited expression, Zayn can tell that Liam’s about ready to launch into his own series of questions based on what’s just been shared with him. As someone who also enjoys learning, Zayn resonates with the itch that can make its way under the skin following a newly discovered gem of information, but he doesn’t want to talk about his own topic, he wants Liam to continue on with his. “But keep going with what you were saying,” he encourages softly. 

Only slightly disappointed that he doesn’t get to appease his budding curiosity, Liam nods in an effort to get himself back on track. “Even after successful tests, education comes into play,” he resumes, tone holding a greater sense of despondency than it did before. “You’d have to teach chemists and biologists around the world how to properly grow the tissue; that takes time. Don’t forget building new databases for people who would be willing to donate, since you wouldn’t need to wait for them to pass anymore - they’d have to be alive to undergo the biopsy procedure. Getting the word out for that?” A heavy exhale interrupts Liam’s speech, “I mean, it’s not just something that’s going to happen over night. Neither is getting a medication approved by the government and putting it into practice, but it’s much more likely.” When Liam’s eyes move from his to the area behind him, Zayn picks up on the immunosuppression reference. “It’ll have long lasting effects for those that wind up using it too.” 

A low hum comes from Zayn as he watches Liam get lost in the complexity that getting his baby of a concept to the masses, will take. It’s a path obstructed by every possible hurdle and toll booth in the books, yet it’s also one that doesn’t seem to have broken Liam’s spirits with its looming shadows. 

“One day though.” The younger man sends Zayn a genuine smile of optimism. “One day people won’t need to be on transplant lists and die waiting for a match.” 

The sureness that Liam possesses forces Zayn to hold up a pair of crossed fingers, much like the former had during their meeting the week prior. 

“Feel free to get comfortable, this is all my space,” Liam offers after showing the other his gratitude for the encouragement in the form of a wider grin. As he accepts the invitation and begins to get out his laptop, Zayn listens in to what else he needs to know. “I think it goes without saying, but we all stay in our own areas. Don’t go into anyone else's.” 

He’s about to remind Liam of his comment regarding the high probability of putting the place on lockdown if he were told to do anything other than stand still and take notes, but he’s afraid that the recollection might instill a real fear in Liam, so Zayn keeps the memory to himself. “I won’t touch a thing,” he swears. 

“Just in case...” Liam closely observes Zayn, who’s now incredibly worried at what’s to come based on that lead in. “Have you ever used a safety shower?” 

Zayn’s never even heard of one, but after a ten minute tutorial on how to use the one situated near the front door, he’s confident that should he literally unleash the next plague, he’ll know how to keep it contained by dowsing water and soap on whoever it’s affected. The same goes for the emergency eye wash counter. 

Back at Liam’s corner desk, Zayn pulls out his laptop. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions that I came up with over the weekend?” 

“No,” Liam answers quickly, “of course not. That’s why I’m here. Did you get through everything?” 

Guilt seeps into the older man’s system. “Not entirely...” 

“I don’t blame you, it’s not exactly a Wikipedia run down,” Liam jokes as he settles into his seat once again. 

“Funny you should put it that way…” With his laptop powered on, Zayn succumbs to the other’s inquisitive gaze. “Would it be possible for you to actually give me one?” 

“Sure, on which part?” 

Zayn holds his breath, “All of it.” 

A short round of laughter comes from Liam, but thankfully it’s not in a way that’s meant to be directed _at_ Zayn, but rather _with_ him in response to how the conversation is panning out. “Right from page one on the history of cardiomyocyte rebuilding?” Liam checks, relaxation visibly taking over his posture when he sinks a bit lower into his chair. 

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Zayn opens the recording application and hits start. “Right from what a cardiomyocyte is.” 

The scientist’s looks down to the room’s ambient sound waves being caught on tape before it’s back to staring at Zayn. For such a huge undertaking being asked of him, there’s no sense of scatter mindedness reflected in the brown of Liam’s eyes, nor is there any semblance of timidity in his voice when he starts with the simplest of, “Well, the first heart transplant took place in 1967.” 

From then on, everything flows together as smoothly as if Liam had prepared all of this beforehand. Maybe he did. Maybe being overly prepared came with working in a very detail oriented field. Should the tables be reversed, Zayn knows that he’d be able to spout off facts about lighting techniques from the beginning of time to today like Liam could explain the process in which billions of heart muscle cells (“those would be the cardiomyocytes. Do you want me to write it down so you know how it’s spelled?”) die and turn into scar tissue when a person has a heart attack. But there’s something about the way the younger male eases into such detail about the topic that proves him to be a better speaker than Zayn. Zayn would need to prepare beforehand to be able to elaborately talk about art in the same way Liam describes how cardiomyocytes are only able to fix themselves early on in a human’s life, hence why people can’t recover from heart disease past infantile years. In fact, Liam’s got such a constant flow, that Zayn doesn’t even need to pull up the list of questions he prepared; everything he needs is being caught on tape. 

Liam’s on a roll talking about how heart disease wouldn’t be one of the world’s largest killers if scientists were able to access the ability for cells to regenerate themselves like they can in the embryo or early stages of life. The male even sprinkles in elementary explanations on how the heart works as a whole, which Zayn _really_ appreciates, because yeah, he watched a handful of videos online geared for literal children as soon as he started to read up on da Vinci’s involvement in biology, but a refresher for reinforcement was more than welcome. Especially when it’s being delivered in a way that doesn’t make Zayn feel like a right idiot. Although, he almost gets to that point when Liam starts talking about the innovations that have been made in recent years and how, without their outcomes to learn from, he might not have been able to undertake what he currently is. 

There’s the team from Harvard that was successful in creating _actual_ heart diseases on a chip, which blows Zayn’s mind, but puts a smile on Liam’s exuberant face because of the insight it carried on how to keep heart cells alive outside of its host. The group from an American university that managed to produce heart muscle proteins and integrate them with stem cells to try and grow youthful cardiomyocytes. A team in Boston who have tried using bone marrow stem cells as the key to kick starting heart cells into gaining their early repair capabilities back. And a researcher from Boston’s Children's Hospital whose work on injecting young microRNAs into a mouse’s heart after it had a heart attack, is still being monitored, but so far, has been extremely successful in the rodent’s recovery. 

It’s a lot to take in, and Zayn knows that tomorrow, when he sits down to transcribe the recording that’s still going an hour later, it’ll probably be just as heavy, but Liam’s melodic voice is undoubtedly what will get him through it. It’s not slow or lifeless in its delivery, it’s soothing. Satisfying in the same way watching someone put the last handful of puzzle pieces in their awaiting slots is, and steady in volume like the pleasant hum of a roaring fire. 

Years of dedication to his subject could be to blame for the way the details are extracted from different parts of Liam’s brain, and spoken like cursive letters are written. But it’s the man’s unbelievable intellect that tells Zayn, if Liam wanted to, he could pick up any book he desired and soak up all of its information with fervor, just give him a day or two. Now the teacher understands why Liam’s a one man team - not only does he have the brain for two research assistants on his own, but Zayn doubts that they’d be able to keep up with his computing capacity; they’d merely be in the way. 

“I think that pretty much covers it for my preliminary background research,” Liam announces, not showing any signs of fatigue even though he’s just issued a masterclass on the human heart for over an hour. “Should I start on my original ideas, or do you have any questions?” 

Tilting his head to the side, Zayn takes a good look at the vivacious man in front of him, raring to go as soon as the older male tells him ‘yes’. “Do you play video games?” 

Liam’s energy falters and he blinks a few times as if to bring himself back to the reality that the question is reminding him still exists. “What?” 

“Do you like to play video games?” Zayn repeats patiently, enjoying seeing how he’s thrown a wrench into Liam’s mental cogs. 

“Uh, yeah,” Liam answers, his uneasiness wearing off the longer he’s able to see that the other’s serious with his inquiry. “I’ve got an Xbox and PS4 at my flat. If my flatmate’s home, he’s usually hogging the TV and watching golf though, so when we’re both there, I don’t really get to play. Unless he wants to play FIFA. Do you?” 

“Yeah, but I’m not massively into sports,” Zayn confesses, proud of himself at being able to hit a bullseye on his first guess trying to find a hobby of Liam’s that can be considered ‘normal’. “I mostly play GTA and fighting games. I find that it’s always a nice way to wind down after a long day.” 

Now that the reason electronics were brought up in the first place becomes clear, it’s like a switch is flipped in Liam. “Yeah, research can get the best of you sometimes,” he agrees. “Chilling out with a controller’s something nice to look forward to.” 

As he’s about to ask about what sort of TV Liam likes watching, ready to go into him if it’s anything overly or underly pretentious, Zayn holds off; the way the man’s just pushed his glasses up at the bridge steals his focus. 

“How bad’s your eyesight?” 

At the mention of his handicap, Liam readjusts the frames by their thick temples. “I’ve got 20/100.” 

The horrendous prescription takes Zayn by surprise, the teacher needing to hold his neutral expression so as not to come off as insensitive. “Has it always been that bad?” 

Liam hardly wavers, “Pretty much. It was a bit better when I was a kid, but it hasn’t gotten any worse since I was ten or eleven, so I reckon this is it.” 

Hearing that for both, their early years were the worst for their optical health makes Zayn feel a bit more empathetic towards Liam, rather than sympathetic, but he’s still not too fond of the idea that a person with so much light in their eyes can have trouble seeing the radiance. 

“Same for me,” Zayn speaks up, “but I’ve got around 20/50. I’m alright with close range, it’s the nearsightedness that gets me. I tried contacts for a little while, but they’re too much of a hassle.” 

“And expensive,” Liam points out. “These are a lot easier.” Carefully, the younger man takes the frames away from his face by both end pieces. 

It’s like seeing a new person. Zayn’s own eyes examine the way Liam’s skin becomes that much clearer, even though nothing’s changed about his hygiene, his face merely looks softer because part of it’s not overshadowed by metal circles. They haven’t known each other for very long, otherwise Zayn would ask him to stay like that for a while longer so he can take a better mental picture of Liam’s second profile. 

“Carry this around with me like a handkerchief.” 

Zayn lets his vision fall from Liam’s sharp jaw to the red microfiber cloth he’s just produced from his trouser pocket. “I always lose mine.” 

“Me Mum got me a pack of these for my birthday,” Liam tells him while adjusting the cloth in his right hand so he can wipe both sides of the lenses with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s got my initials sewn into the corner.” Once he’s finished wiping both lenses, he puts the eyeglasses back on and stares into one of the room’s lighting fixtures to check his work. Satisfied, Liam holds out the piece of red fabric, ‘LJP’ visible in gold thread. “You can use it if you want.” 

Figuring it couldn’t hurt any, Zayn accepts the cloth, “Thanks.” 

In the middle of arranging the material in his palm, he hears a gentle, “Hey.” 

Looking up, uncovered eyes are met with an endeared Liam. Irrespective of the way the male’s facial expressions give away what he’s thinking, Zayn still gets self-conscious under the targeted gaze. 

“No, you’re alright,” Liam reassures him softly when Zayn starts to put his half-clean glasses back on to see in detail why he’s being stared at so strongly. “I just wanted to see you without your glasses on.” 

The man lowers his frames to finish polishing them when he hears that nothing’s wrong, Liam’s just much braver at voicing his wants than Zayn is. “Good,” the teacher replies. “I was afraid you were gonna ask me to guess how many fingers you were holding up.” 

A wide smile splits Liam’s face, “I wouldn’t do that to you. I’m sure you had enough of that growing up.” 

Memories come flooding into Zayn’s head of the years he spent warding off kids who found it funny that the already introverted bookworm needed glasses to help read his copy of Virginia Wolff. “The trick was to ask them if they knew how many _I_ was holding up afterwards,” he shares, immediately flipping up his middle finger in demonstration. 

A roar of laughter fills the room, Liam’s eyes scrunching closed and crinkles forming along their edges as his head tilts back. Thankfully, only the width of a desk separates the two, otherwise Zayn would’ve been disappointed that he couldn’t see the beautiful sight in full clarity. 

“I never had the guts to pull that one,” Liam says once he’s calmed back down. 

“You were missing out.” The smile that came to Zayn’s lips when he witnessed the other’s laughing fit falters when he remembers the close calls his antics got him into. “Nearly got knocked out for it a couple times though. Bullies in the North don’t really take too well to kids who talk back.” 

“Neither do bullies from the Midlands,” Liam matches. “Which is why I kept my mouth shut and eyes down.” 

“What about twenty-six year old Liam?” 

The named man quirks his right eyebrow, “What about him?” 

“Would he flip someone off?” Rubbing his lips together, Zayn watches Liam with intrigue, having an idea as to how the other has grown into himself, but still wanting to hear if his hunch is correct or not. 

Liam’s lips twist up in a small smirk as he embraces the challenge, “Let’s see.” 

Each man switches appearances, Zayn bringing his glasses back up to his eyes and Liam taking his off. 

Getting into character requires Zayn to pull an evil grimace. “Hey, four eyed wanker!” He spits, accent even thicker than it normally is to help instill as much fear in the other, as he recalls being done to him. 

“Wow,” Liam chuckles, “maybe the Northerners really were worse…” 

The older man doesn’t let the grin throw off his menacing character, “How many fingers am I holding up?” 

Completely ignoring Zayn’s showing of three, Liam squints his eyes in determination and replies with a strong “one”, holding up his right middle finger to accompany his answer. 

Now it’s Zayn’s turn to laugh loudly, loving more than anything that Liam took it upon himself to go for the punchline first, not waiting for the opportunity to give his own version of the question after answering Zayn’s correctly. His hilarity doesn’t last as long as Liam’s had, but the other still seems to have loved it just as much, as made evident by the goofy smile that’s directed in Zayn’s direction. 

Now aware that Liam won’t deem him creepy for admiring his looks barre glasses, Zayn doesn’t rush doing so, like he had a minute prior. 

“You’ve got a face that can stand strong on its own,” Liam professes, breaking the comfortable silence. “You know, without the glasses.” 

A streak of shyness at being complimented comes over Zayn. He knows exactly what’s meant by the words - some people need glasses to complete them, while others might not have a face that can handle such crowding. But Zayn’s petulant, so he makes a joke out of the remark instead of outwardly acknowledging the flattery. “You lyin’ to me about your eyesight?” 

Finally, Liam slips his glasses back on, blinking quickly after doing so to adjust to the magnification. “No, I’m very much halfway to blind.” 

It’s not so much a self-deprecating joke as much as it is true, but the reply still pangs Zayn slightly. He hands back the microfiber cloth, watching as Liam folds it and then shoves it down into his pocket straight after, rendering the order useless. “You too by the way.” Liam looks up from where he was trying to snap a string off his trouser pocket. “I can see you with and without the specs.” Deciding to be bold, Zayn spells out what he’s trying to say. “You look good either way.” 

Liam ditches his fly thread and takes his bottom lip in with his teeth for a split second. “Do you want to share my packet of Wotsits?” 

It’s not a typical response to flirting, but talk of food reminds Zayn just how long it’s been since lunch, so he agrees. “Uh, yeah, sure.” 

“I’ll bring some the next time we meet,” Liam promises, realizing he needs to explain himself further when Zayn stays looking confused. “That would’ve been my response to someone taking a _liking_ to me in primary school.” 

Even though he’s mildly upset that he won’t be eating the orange snack in the next few minutes, Zayn’s quick to get over it. “And I would’ve accepted,” he tells the man sincerely. “Wotsits are the best crisps, hands down.” 

Liam takes note of the opinion, “I’ll make sure it’s a big bag then.” 

“I’ll bring the coffee.” 

To Zayn’s delight, his vow bodes well with the researcher, yet when he looks down at his phone to see how far they’ve gone past his dinner time he’s taken by surprise at the fact that he forgot to switch off the recording once their conversation steered away from science. 

“Have you tried any of the places I told you about?” 

Hitting stop, Zayn picks up his phone and starts to rename the file to the date and location. “Only one, but it was really good.” 

“Glad you liked it.” Liam’s expression goes from pleased to confused when he sees the man across from him shut his laptop and start to pack it away in his briefcase. “Are we done?” 

Zayn snaps the leather bag shut by its single clasp, “Aren’t you hungry?” 

“Yeah,” Liam says, though it sounds like he’s telling himself that more than he is Zayn. “I guess I just lost track of time.” Even so, he stays sitting still. “I’m free on Wednesday again.” 

“Not me.” Zayn leans back in his chair once he checks that he’s got his keys tucked safely in the leather fold on the front of the bag. “I’ve gotta have this conversation all over again with the people from the Geography and-” He stops himself in order to remember the second department’s exact name, speaking slowly so he doesn’t mess it up when he recalls the full thing, “the Atmospheric, Oceanic, and Planetary Physics Department.” 

Liam looks just as unimpressed as Zayn. “They’re not one in the same?” 

“Don’t go asking them that,” the older man laughs. “ _Your_ department might’ve given me the keys to the city, but the Geography department just about put my picture on the security watchlist for asking what you just did.” 

“What are you looking at with them?” Liam asks, ready to fully absorb whatever Zayn answers with. 

“They’re doing research on enforcing better early warnings for flash floods in Kenya,” Zayn prefaces. “Africa’s fastest river’s in Kenya, so I’m going to point out how da Vinci believed that rivers are the most powerful natural force and show how his warning aligns with what they’re trying to prevent. Flash floods escalate erosion and da Vinci also wrote about how movement from water is what shapes the earth’s landscape, so I plan to write about that as well.” 

“And the other two projects?” Focused, Liam keeps his eyes trained on the lecturer. “You said there were four, one from each major area of the university.” 

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, “the other two are based in music and engineering.” 

Having someone outside of his field take an interest in Zayn’s work is such an unusual occurrence, that he isn’t sure what the correct reaction should be. He had his family, who always did their best to keep up with their fancy Oxford relative and his atypical passion of learning about Monet’s obsession over colour, but Liam was so far removed from Zayn’s personal life, that he struggled to believe that the man’s inquisitiveness came from a genuine place, or if he was simply doing it out of obligation; the other was dedicating the next few months to learning all about hearts, it was only polite that he at least pretend to reciprocate the interest. 

Regardless of Liam’s intentions, Zayn knows he shouldn’t waste the opportunity to gush about what he’s deemed worthy enough to dedicate a year of his life to, who knows when he’ll get to do it again. 

“There’s a whole group that functions within the music department that works to promote electronic music as a serious practice through the distribution of advanced research to the public. Leonardo built instruments, so that’s going to be a bit of a critical look on what he would think about music being made without any tangible materials. That and the flood stuff I can kind of understand to some extent,” Zayn admits, his earnest expression changing to one of intimidation as he keeps talking, “but I’m about as clueless to the thermofluid engineering as am I with your subject. They’re experimenting with turbomachinery, to put it simply. And the one thing people tend to know about da Vinci _outside_ of the Mona Lisa, is that he drew and explained the airplane hundreds of years before it was conceptualized in real life. Called it the ‘flying machine’,” Zayn puts his hands up to form air quotes around the name. 

“Guess that makes me a right idiot,” Liam concedes willingly. “I had no idea.” 

Zayn can’t help but think that Liam’s the _furthest_ thing from an idiot, especially with the way he’s so comfortable admitting his intellectual shortcomings. 

“Well now you know,” the older male smiles calmly. 

As if the grin’s contagious, Liam’s lips turn up. “Yeah,” he speaks as if in a stupor. “Now I do.” 

He should head out, he knows this, but Zayn’s transfixed by the way Liam innocently stares back at him like he’s worth skipping dinner for, so long as they could stay sitting there, together. 

Zayn’s the first to break their gaze, and as he looks down at his phone, he wonders how much longer they could’ve stayed like that if he didn’t. “So between meetings with the other project teams and teaching,” he says while pulling up his calendar. “Can you do… next Thursday morning? Nine?” 

“Should do,” Liam replies easily, the sound of his mobile unlocking is what gets Zayn to look up. “Save the following Tuesday for me while you’re at it.” Before he goes back to his digital planner, Zayn waits for a reason why. “My first volunteer biopsy is that morning. If you want to see that in person.” 

Blood. Red, sticky, oozing. Possibly squirting out from places. Just the thought makes Zayn queasy, but he knows that for the sake of his write-up, it’d be good to see the machinery that’s used, up close and personal. He’ll just have to make sure that he doesn’t eat a big breakfast that morning, or really test what Liam thinks of how he looks without glasses on as he’s sick in the nearest bin. 

“I’ll put it down,” he responds, keeping his bitter feelings towards the agreement to himself. 

“Alright,” Liam exhales, “then I’ll see you next week.” 

Sliding his phone into his pocket, Zayn stands and begins to put his jacket back on. “Don’t forget the Wotsits,” he threatens playfully when he catches eyes with Liam for a brief moment. 

“Don’t forget the coffee,” the younger man counters, sending Zayn a swift wink, though it hardly qualifies as one with the way both of Liam’s eyes close at the same time. It’s the miniature smirk on the other’s face that gives away his intended action and sticks with Zayn for the rest of the night. 

RUOF 

_Why did I pursue a career in education?_ is the question Zayn asks himself every morning when his alarm goes off at seven. Tired eyes crack open just enough to find the source of the blaring siren and push snooze. Another nine minutes won’t do much for his energy, but at least he can put off experiencing the chilly morning temperature by staying warm under his grey comforter. 

By the time the fourth snooze alarm hits, Zayn actually sits up. He could probably afford one more if he wanted to really push it, but at this point Liam might end up getting homemade brew instead of some hole in the wall place off his list; if Zayn sleeps any longer, they might wind up with whatever black stew can be found in the hospital. 

“J. Edgar Hoover: FBI leader or traitor? On this episode of the Conspiracy 101 podcast we investigate whether or not the US Government Official used blackmail as a way of keeping his position.” 

Running his hand through his towel dried hair, Zayn stares at himself in the mirror hung in the entryway to his flat. The closely buzzed sides of his head contrast with the top that’s about 10 cm longer and falling flat rather than sticking up in a quiff thanks to his laziness that day. His earphones cord peeks out from underneath a black and white striped jumper, a thick, black velvet biker jacket covering it. The top’s got faux fur lining, which causes the teacher to keep its collar popped up so his neck and lower jaw can stay warm. If it weren’t for the white in his jumper, Zayn might’ve thought of his outfit as a bit too dark, especially with black jeans and his usual black framed glasses completing the look. 

_It matches my mood_ , he thinks grumpily. _It’s gonna be a long day._

As he waits for his two flat white’s at the corner shop near his house that he likes to go to (when he’s not running late for the bus), Zayn eyes the freshly baked pain au chocolat in the display case. In his morning fog, he had managed to make himself a bowl of Weetabix, but the sugar from the pastry could do him well. He’d blocked out two hours for Liam in his calendar that morning, a staff meeting at half past eleven not giving him much choice for any more than that. Afterwards a quick lunch, then his office hours, which he planned to use as a time to transcribe whatever he and Liam talked about that day, should no students show up and he be left to his own devices. A quick bolt of sugar couldn’t hurt. 

“Zayn? Two flat whites for takeaway?” 

A practiced, fake smile finds its way to Zayn’s lips as he takes the two cups from the barista. “Thanks.” Turning to check out the decadent pastries, he notices that four new people have joined the queue. “Bullocks,” he grumbles to himself, choosing to forgo the baked goods in order to make it to Liam on time. Although, looking through the window that’s centered in the research lab door soon after, ten minutes early doesn’t seem to be early enough. 

With each hand holding a paper cup, Zayn uses his right knuckle to knock on the glass and get Liam’s attention. A few other heads inside the room turn at the sound, but once Liam registers who caused it, he’s out of his chair before anyone can say anything. 

“Morning,” the man greets cheerfully, immediately relieving Zayn of one of the white cups. 

“Morning,” he replies, doing his best to sound half as awake as Liam is. 

It helps that the other didn’t use the full ‘ _good_ morning’ because then it might be a little harder to come across as civilized; there wasn’t anything good about having to turn his brain on this early. The fifteen minute walk over from the coffee shop woke him up considerably, but only because of the ice cold weather. If Zayn wanted to be shocked into consciousness, he would’ve taken the liberty himself and turned his shower faucet all the way to the right, not the left. At least it wasn’t raining today, that would’ve been the cherry on top. 

“Smells good,” Liam thinks aloud after bringing the coffee up to his nose and taking a long inhale of the steam billowing out of the lid’s rectangle slit. “Do you want me to set your bag down and then we can take a walk around? There’s no food or drink in the lab unless it’s a closed water bottle.” 

Thankful that Liam’s offered to take them away from a place where others can listen in on their conversation, Zayn nods and trades Liam’s cup for his briefcase. 

Maybe they wouldn’t fall into a conversation about anything other than Liam’s research, but even then, the seriousness that the room exudes has Zayn worried that one decibel above a whisper, and he’d be disturbing any of the others’ work; he’d like to keep his pristine keycard thank you very much. 

A small smile comes to Zayn when he sees Liam open the door with a bag of Wotsits in hand. 

“My vision might not be,” Liam says when he sees that Zayn’s noticed his half of the deal being upheld, “but my memory’s quite sharp.” 

It’s no pastry filled with rich chocolate, but the fact that the crisps still fall into the junk food category will suffice. Saying his thanks, Zayn’s rewarded the freshly opened bag in exchange for Liam’s coffee. 

Twisting the cup around at eye level, Liam searches for some sort of label before they start walking forward. “Which place did this one come from?” 

“My own actually,” Zayn answers, reveling in the cheesy taste that’s just coated his taste buds. “Couldn’t be arsed to wake up early enough to go to the place you wrote down that’s closest to here.” With no real care for directional accuracy, Zayn points his cup to the left of them. “My flat’s about twenty minutes up the road, otherwise I would’ve gotten something from the checklist that’s in the city center.” 

“What’s it called?” 

“Deli Delight,” Zayn says with a full mouth, having just pulled out a handful of the orange puffs and opting to eat them all at once. “They’ve got good sandwiches too,” he makes known, passing the bag back to Liam before he gets more carried away than he already has. 

Humoured by Zayn’s appetite, Liam smiles around the edge of his cup that’s sitting against his lips. “It’s not bad,” he declares after swallowing. 

In his sleepwalking state of mind, Zayn hadn’t even thought to ask how the other liked his morning drink. “Just went with the default flat white.” Not that Liam doesn’t already know that. “Hope that’s alright.” 

“No yeah, it’s good,” Liam waves off kindly. “I’m not picky.” An upcoming bin makes him stop and pry off the lid. “I usually get a plain latte, but they’re practically two in the same.” 

Bringing the cup up close to his mouth, Liam blows on its contents. All at once, his glasses fog up into a cloudy barrier, but that doesn’t stop the man from taking a sip. 

Waiting in his spot, Zayn bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too wide at the fog that’s now taking twice as long to evaporate, as it did appear. Even though it’s got nothing to do with age, the action still winds up making Liam look like a child. It’s not a rare occurrence for someone with glasses, yet Zayn’s never found himself dating anyone who wore frames. The endearment his exes always got from when it happened to him, finally makes sense. 

As soon as Liam’s lenses start to clear up again, it becomes apparent that he’s indecisive on how to react knowing that he’d been watched closely over something so mundane. And now Zayn’s even more glad they’re not in front of others, so he doesn’t have to hide the blatant flirtatious move he’s about to make. 

Taking a couple steps closer to where Liam’s standing allows Zayn to drop his own lid into the bin. He’d been nursing the drink ever since he left the corner cafe, but when he tilts the cup back, he blows with emphasis on the liquid that’s left inside so the last of the remaining heat can make his own glasses cloudy. 

“Did you know,” Liam starts with an excited tone, and fond smile once Zayn’s lenses go back to being see-through. “Well yeah, you probably did,” the man backtracks momentarily. “That da Vinci might’ve had a disorder where one of his eyes was turned outward a hair?” Instead of answering, Zayn just lets Liam keep going like it seems like he wants to. “I read that he might’ve been able to control it too, which is how he was such an amazing painter. Being able to see a canvas as a 3-D surface instead of only a 2-D might’ve been what made his paintings so realistic.” 

Given that the last time da Vinci was brought up between the two of them Liam admitted his lack of knowledge on the legendary man, Zayn’s shocked at the facts that are being relayed to him. Liam’s right to assume that he _did_ know all about what the other’s managed to teach himself, yet what that was, isn’t commonplace, so Zayn’s astonishment stays as is. But if Liam wants to talk art, then they’ll talk art. 

“If you pay attention to the exterior landscape outside the windows in the Last Supper, you can see how he uses more dull colours - grey, steel blue, stale off-white,” Zayn lists off, snatching the crisps bag back after they start walking again and Liam’s already taken a few, “to create an illusion of depth. It’s a technique used by lots of painters in the Renaissance, but given that you know the Last Supper by its name-” Zayn stops himself, realizing that he can’t make that sort of assumption about people’s awareness of art. “Do you?” He double checks cautiously, afraid that he’s already inadvertently insulted Liam if he _didn’t_ actually know what the Last Supper is. 

“I don’t remember the details,” the younger man replies, “but I reckon I could pick it out in a lineup.” 

Relief eases Zayn’s nerves back down. “Good, because that proves my point. The fact that it’s become such a well known painting- mural really,” he corrects himself, “shows how well he implemented it. Extropia definitely would’ve helped with that.” 

While Zayn chucks a few more Wotsits into his mouth, Liam sounds out the name of the eye disease slowly. 

“Did you decide to switch your career field and join me on the fun side?” The lecturer asks in a mischievous tone, turning his head to the side and seeing Liam already shaking his head. 

“Wait until I get my hands on my first tissue sample,” he counters, taking the crisps back in jovial debate. “Then _you’ll_ be the one wanting to join _me.”_

“Not in a million years.” And Zayn means that. He couldn’t think of anything more nerve wracking or strenuous than being a scientific researcher. “How’d you come across something as specific as his possible eye disorder?” Zayn asks, unable to keep the question to himself since this was all so out of left field. 

“Google,” Liam answers passively before moving on to his next thought in a flash. “It’s not the only thing I found out about him either.” Raising his eyebrows, Zayn waits patiently. “He only slept two hours a day. Took a twenty minute nap every four hours. That’s mad!” 

Liam’s enthusiasm causes the older man to laugh lightly as they round a white corner into another white corridor. “To you and I, but we spend a third of our life sleeping. He got back years and years of his life by sleeping in low cycles like that.” A few more crisps are taken from their bag. “More room for creativity.” 

“Yeah, but your dopamine levels would be so off balanced that it would negatively affect your cognitive function,” Liam argues after taking a drink from his cup. “You can’t have too much of it and you can’t have too little of it.” 

“Isn’t dopamine a happy thing?” Turning his head away from the boring bulletin boards they were passing, Zayn studies Liam’s side profile in confusion. 

“It can be.” Sensing he’s being watched, the male glances at his admirer briefly. “It can also be used to help people move - literally.” 

That doesn't help Zayn’s understanding in the least. “Like one foot in front of the other?” 

“Mhmm,” Liam nods, grabbing a couple of their shared orange snacks before he goes on to elaborate. “Dopamine is a sort of chemical messenger that tells the brain to do something. The brain’s got a lot of different compartments, but there are two areas that make dopamine. One part produces it and gives off signals for the brain to start movements and even form words. People who have Parkinson’s disease sometimes take medications that help them make more dopamine so they can move better. The other part sends dopamine signals around the brain when a living thing gets a reward.” 

He reaches into the crisps bag again, holding one up for Zayn to see. “Take Wotsits,” he states matter of factly. “We like Wotsits. If I eat one,” he tosses the puff into his mouth. “I know that it’s good and I want more. My taste buds say yes, and the dopamine gets released to tell the brain, ‘figure out a way to get more, because I like it’. It’s like a reinforcement system that keeps you coming back for more, which is how drug highs make people addicted.” Zayn opens up the bag wider when the man goes for another handful. “I have good self-restraint, otherwise I could easily get addicted to Wotsits.” 

There’s a corny smile being sent his way, but Zayn’s hung up on how easy that all was to comprehend to give it too much attention; he might even be able to remember the definition a week from now. Forget trying to remember how a dj mixing board works or what Kenya’s quarterly rainfall is. So badly does he want to ask Liam if he realizes just how smart he really is, but as someone who was also the type that excelled at school, Zayn knows how annoying it can get to hear. There’s a good chance Liam would throw the compliment back at him and say that Zayn was just that comprehensive in art history too, so if they wanted to keep from engaging in a war of shy flattery, he should just keep his praise-heavy thoughts to himself. 

“You and me both,” Zayn responds, going against his good judgement and handing over the bag to put Liam’s self-restraint to the test. “What else did you learn?” 

“That he writes backwards.” The man nods to a woman that’s passing on his right. “How long do you think it’d take you to be able to write backwards without needing to think about it?” He asks Zayn as soon as she’s passed, stopping where they are and taking out a pen from his trouser pocket. 

As Zayn takes the question into consideration, estimating the amount of time he thinks he’d be able to call himself fluent in mirrored writing, he takes the cup and bag that Liam’s handing him. The other uncaps the black pen and steps towards the nearest wall, splaying his left palm against the surface. 

“Maybe a couple weeks,” Zayn finally voices, scrutinizing the way Liam’s trying to write his name backwards on the back of his left hand. “But he wrote right to left as well, not just standard reverse handwriting.” 

As soon as he hears Zayn’s words, Liam’s face drops from the proud expression it held at getting his name written without any mistakes. “Oh.” In the blink of an eye, he’s restarting in the space underneath his first attempt. This time around makes Liam think a lot harder, but the way he beams at his final product seems hardly warranted to Zayn given that three out of the four letters in Liam’s lowercase name is the same backwards as it is forward. “You try,” the man insists, already reaching to take what’s in Zayn’s hands from him. 

“Mine’s about four times as hard as yours,” he preempts, gripping Liam’s pen and trying to think about how to start with the ‘n’. “So don’t judge me.” 

“I won’t.” 

Things go well up until he gets to the ‘z’ and winds up realizing halfway through the diagonal that he’s not doing it backwards. “Fuck.” Immediately, he sends daggers to the man at his side, who’s trying to suppress his giggles. “What’d I just say?” 

“I wasn’t judging you,” Liam defends in haste, his laughter having seized, but the way the right side of his mouth curves up serves as a reminder that it happened. “Here,” he motions for them to switch handfuls. “Let me try.” 

He doesn’t even make it past the ‘y’ before realizing he’s majorly screwed up. 

“Yeah,” Zayn smirks triumphantly. “Who’s untouchable now, Einstein?” 

Pocketing the pen and taking back his things, Liam leads them back to their walk. “Do you know a lot about him too?” 

“No, definitely not,” Zayn’s eyes widen slightly at the enormity of a task it would be to master a second genius of Einstein’s stature. “Only know as much about da Vinci as I do from going to an art exhibit last spring that had a few of his pieces from the Royal Library on display.” 

“Yeah, it said it was the 500 year anniversary of his death this year.” 

Zayn nods in confirmation, “That’s why the original journal pages were taken out of Windsor Castle - as a celebration for the public to see things that are normally inaccessible to anyone but the Queen and historians.” Whiteness from the floor tiles draws Zayn in. “I always loved his artwork, but that exhibition opened my eyes to how brilliant he was in pretty much every field. It’s that fascination that made me want to showcase the man’s notes as independent research.” 

“And now thanks to you, I know a bit more about him too.” Looking up from the mundane flooring, Zayn finds himself smiling back at the soft grin Liam’s giving him. “Have you been to the exhibit at the National Gallery in London about him that opened a couple weeks ago?” 

_Some Google search this was_ , Zayn thinks to himself at the specific question he’s being asked. 

“I’m waiting until after the term ends,” he replies, nearly asking Liam to go with him since that’s the response his brain naturally tells him to give. “It’s a tough wait though,” he divulges. “I love museums.” 

“Yeah?” Liam’s eyebrows raise in response to learning something as important as one of Zayn’s ‘favourites’. “There's quite a few here in Oxford.” 

The enthusiasm the PhD student speaks with energizes Zayn as if he’s the one experiencing it. He hopes that what he says next doesn’t diminish any of it. “I know. I’ve been to all of them.” 

Liam’s head whips to his left, “Already?” 

“I _really_ love museums,” the older man simpers, reaching for more crisps. 

“Even the history of science one?” 

“It certainly wasn’t first,” Zayn says with his mouth half full. “But yeah, I’ve been.” 

“I think that’s the _only_ one I’ve been to honestly,” Liam confesses while looking down in his coffee cup to see how much is left. 

Before he’s got the chance to filter himself and avoid revealing too much about his non-existent social life, Zayn speaks. “Haven’t really made that many friends here yet, so it was a nice way to fill up my days before the term started.” 

“It’s been about a month since then.” Quickly, Liam turns concerned. “Have you found your crowd?” 

The last thing Zayn wants is sympathy, especially from someone who is more likely than not, going to follow up on what he had to say with an invite to some pub, strictly because it was a nice thing to do for the new kid. 

“I could say yes, but that’d be an answer solely based on my obligatory coworkers being mates,” Zayn teases half-heartedly. “So I’ll say no, not really. But it’s alright,” he reassures swiftly, “I’m not a super social person anyway. ‘M pretty reserved.” 

“Well, I've never been to any of the modern art museums in town.” 

_Which goes to show how little you know about art_ , Zayn muses to himself. _There’s only one._

“If you’d be up for it…” 

Here it comes. 

“Maybe we can go to your favourite one of these days and you can talk me ear off about what’s all on display.” 

As they continue to meander down the hospital hallway, Zayn wonders what Liam might be like at a museum. If he actually takes the time to read what’s on the plaques, or if he goes around at the speed of light, only looking to find the one real piece he recognizes as a default wallpaper on his laptop. He did say he’d be interested in going if Zayn acted as his docent, which does make the teacher stop and consider that Liam might have actually meant what he said and didn’t request for the accompaniment out of obligation, but he’s still hesitant. Zayn doesn’t want _his_ space to be tainted should they go and the other start to get bored; museums were _not_ about to be ruined for him just because a man with the smile of an elated puppy and the intellectual charm of Zayn’s dreams suggested they go on a whim. 

He takes a glimpse to his right. 

The smallest bit of fog clouds the lower third of Liam’s glasses as he finishes his coffee. 

“Yeah, that’d be cool,” Zayn finally replies. 

It seems impossible to do anytime soon with his schedule how it is at the moment, but he’s willing to at least verbally admit that the concept is something he’s on board with. 

Looking into the bag that’s being pointed at him, Zayn can see that Liam’s offering him the last of their crisps. 

“Worst part about Wotsits?” The younger male asks as the bag’s being emptied. 

“The mess!” Both say at the same time, chuckling as each holds up orange coated fingers after tossing their rubbish into the bin attached to a nearby janitor’s trolley. 

“We can wash this off in the lab,” Liam says while wiggling his fingers childishly, “and then I can start where we left off last week - going over the details of how my project’s meant to work.” 

Nerves of becoming overwhelmed by the meat of what he’s come to Liam for have been washed away thanks to the man’s previous comforting scientific explanations. Zayn might even enjoy the detailed lecture, who knows? 

“I think the caffeine has hit enough for me to be able to keep my eyes open for the rest of the day,” he teases, though also very much means. “So I think I’m ready.” 

Rubbing his hands together to try and get as much of the orange dust off as possible before they got back to the lab, Liam starts to get excited at the prospect of getting to babble about his life’s work. “I’ve got this whole 3-D simulation with my bonding predictions on the computer. You’re going to love it.” 

He might be more than willing to listen to Liam talk about his passion, but Zayn doesn’t ever think he’ll ever _love_ cardiology in the same sense as the researcher does. That’s not to say that he doesn’t find the information about how cells can be bred in a petri dish and then attach together similar to how skin closes over itself in the case of a cut or with the help of stitches _interesting_ , it’s just that the attention to detail that needs to be taken with something as small as an atom reminds Zayn that he’s way out of his league. Even so, he enjoys seeing Liam’s animation that comes from getting to talk about how he plans to have ventricular heart cells assemble and function as a strip of pure muscle. It’s evident in the way the man’s eyes widen ever so slightly and his voice starts to speed up when he’s showing Zayn the video outlining the process through elementary graphics that he got the other researchers in the lab to help him create. How he’s so unbelievably eager to learn the software himself and play around with molecular models so that next time, he can come up with “the most wicked thing ever”. As if it wasn’t already apparent by the way Liam had gone out of his way to educate himself on _Zayn’s_ research topic of choice, this _need_ to master another skill on top of the hundreds he already possesses, shows Zayn how much Liam simply loves to _learn_. 

Between that insatiable love for knowledge and the jumbled up version of his name sitting on Liam’s left hand that’s put on direct display each time the man points to the screen or something in his notes, Zayn can tell that the calm smile on his face won’t be going away any time soon. 

EVIF 

Eyes squint at the small print on the bottom of the flyer sticking out of Zayn’s spiral notebook. 

**If you’d like to participate in this groundbreaking research, please contact Liam Payne, Oxford University, Surgical Sciences PhD Researcher. Volunteers will be compensated for their donation, as well as have any treatment plan they are currently undergoing (regardless of the condition), accelerated through the NHS system.**

Making sure it doesn’t fall out, Zayn opens the front flap and tucks the piece of paper into the first page pocket. Upon entering the waiting room that Liam had instructed to meet him in that morning, he was given the research advertisement by the man for reference. Placed around all the local hospitals and medical centers, the single sheet outlined all the major points on what Liam is trying to achieve with as much of a sales pitch tone as was tasteful, in order to get others to help him accomplish his dream. The requirements aren’t much: be under the age of thirty-five, have no history of heart or blood disease in your immediate family (including the person themselves), have no history of smoking, and only be an occasional drinker. Oh, and “have a want to change the world!”, which, now that Zayn knows Liam personally, is hard to read in anything other than the male’s enthusiastic tone of voice. 

“Look at you in your scrubs!” 

There it is. 

Closing his notebook, Zayn looks up to see Liam damn near beaming at him in the sea foam green gown. He’s matching, a mask dangling on the side of his face by one of its elastic strings around his ear. 

“Tying the back was a bit hard to get to-” 

“Do ya need help?” 

In a flash, Liam’s walking forward so he can get a good look at the knots Zayn had made behind his neck and waist. 

“No, no, I think I did alright,” Zayn speaks hurriedly, unsure as to why he doesn’t want to make an embarrassment out of himself over something as simple as tying knots, especially with someone as non-judgemental as Liam being the one checking their security. 

“Yeah, you did.” Face to face, Liam sticks his hands in the pockets of the surgical uniform. “Can’t even tell you apart from the rest of us. History of art professor, who?” 

“I’m just a lecturer,” Zayn insists, wishing that he could feel as raring to go as Liam seems to be, but that’s just not possible for someone as weary towards blood as he is. By the look on Liam’s face, it doesn’t seem like Zayn’s doing all that great of a job hiding that nervousness either. 

“Everything ok?” The younger male asks gently, his facial features taking on a similar emotion. 

For a second Zayn thinks about lying, telling Liam that everything’s great, he was still just a little groggy from having to wake up at seven that morning to make it to the eight o’clock start time assigned to the biopsy he was about to witness, but what good would that do when he got inside the room and then immediately needed to leave? Sharing that he could really go for one of the cigarettes that are sitting at the bottom of his briefcase in the corner of the changing room they’re currently standing in probably wouldn’t go over too well either. The anxiety of having to watch a surgery in person, supersedes the possible heartbreak he’s going to put Liam through by admitting to the fact that he’s been using rolling papers since the age of sixteen. One disappointing secret at a time. 

“Uh, yeah, I just…” Zayn’s left hand comes up to scratch at his short beard, his right gripping his notebook a bit tighter. “I don’t think I need to tell you that I’ve never watched a surgery before. Never even been put under myself.” 

The deep breath that Liam takes has a similar calming effect on Zayn, although he’s not sure how. 

“I know that this technically qualifies as a surgical procedure, but trust me,” Liam shakes his head. “It’s not what you’re thinking, I promise. No scalpels, no crazy machines. The man’s going to be awake during it; it doesn’t even require him to be put under.” 

While the information Liam’s giving him eases some of Zayn’s jitters, he’s still lost as to how a piece of a person’s heart can be taken without the use of any sharp objects. 

“No scalpels?” He repeats. 

“Well,” Liam wavers, instantly making Zayn’s eyes narrow some. “We do have to use one to make the incision on his neck.” 

How’d they manage to go from no invasive cuts, to one being made straight on the jugular? And while the guy was awake!? 

Sensing Zayn’s growing panic, Liam jumps back into his elaboration. “It’s not that big though, and the area will be numbed, so he won’t be able to feel a thing. We already gave him a relaxer through an IV in his arm too.” Zayn calms down some during the small pause Liam takes, but not enough to pacify the scientist. “We’ll put a small catheter tube into a blood vessel that goes straight to his heart, and Dr. Twicken will direct it by a string through a series of images and ultrasounds on the TV’s in the room.” A chill runs over Zayn’s skin at the uneasy feeling of what it must feel like to have a doctor go fishing in your veins. “When he gets to the part of the heart we want, there are these claws that come out and take the tissue.” This is not getting any better. “Then the string gets pulled out with the sample and we put pressure on the cut until it stops bleeding.” 

“No stitches?” 

Zayn’s not even sure why he’s asked the question. It’s not as if a yes or no answer’s going to soothe his mind about the fact that _claws_ are being used in all this. 

“None,” Liam confirms. “It’s that small of a cut.” 

So maybe today won’t have to be the day Zayn sees a real human heart from the depths of a man’s chest after all. Nice. 

“If you really don’t want to be in the room to watch the sample be taken on the TV screens, then it’s going to be recorded, so I can always send that to you and you can watch it at your own discretion.” 

Liam’s offer doesn’t sound all that bad, but at the end of the day, a microscopic tube apparatus pulling off a piece of a person’s heart is just that. The only thing he’d be sparing himself is the immediacy of it all, and possibly having to hear the man in any pain; although, if things go the way Liam says they will, the numbing agents should prevent that from being a reality. 

“You’ve got a play by play of the procedure on paper, yeah?” He checks, taking a deep breath to both put himself at ease, as well as slow down the beating of his own heart that’s started to speed up now that he’s made up his mind on what to do. 

“Of course, yeah,” Liam checks his watch quickly. “I was going to send that to you regardless of whether or not you want the footage. It’s thorough enough that you don’t have to watch the video to understand, and I can always answer any questions you have.” 

Before he can talk himself out of the idea, Zayn nods sternly, “I’ll have you send it over after, but for now, we better get going before we’re late.” 

Liam stays in his place, eyeing Zayn as if to see whether or not the other will backtrack on his words when more time is given for them to properly sink in. 

“For someone who’s been looking forward to this day since you submitted your PhD proposal two years ago,” Zayn teases in a sarcastic tone, “you sure don’t seem all that excited.” 

In the blink of an eye, Liam’s cheeks bunch up around his cheekbones. “I was like a kid on Christmas Eve last night,” he admits, leading the way out of the changing room and through the hospital’s outpatient surgery area. “Couldn’t sleep at all.” 

“Tell me about this guy again,” Zayn prompts as they walk through the hallways that are much more populated than he’s used to. “He saw your ad and just emailed you?” 

“Basically, yeah.” Maneuvering around an oncoming empty gourney, Liam walks with a hop in his step. “He signed up because he has a young daughter with Cystic Fibrosis and wanted to see if she could get immediate attention instead of himself if he volunteered. Having a free public healthcare system like the NHS is all sunshine and roses until you need anything other than routine services. Something as simple as getting an appointment to see a specialist can take months; I’ve even seen a year.” Liam pauses outside of a door titled ‘Outpatient Surgery Room 306’. “It might seem a little unfair to push people up on lists, but the NHS agreed because they see the importance in what I’m trying to do, and how hard it is to sell people on this sort of donation. 

“It wasn’t easy to get them to agree to the consolation being for a blood relative, but I couldn’t take the easy route and pass on him. I’d do the same thing.” The man looks at Zayn stoically, “If it were my little girl, I’d offer up my whole body for something as simple as a specialist recommendation. Anything for her to be one step closer to being healthy.” 

Zayn looks between Liam’s eyes that have gained a new weight to them, a gravity that says a lot about the kind of person Liam is beyond endearing smiles and energy spikes. He’s the determined type through and through; standing tall against the impossibilities scientific research entails on a day to day basis, to do right for the field, but more importantly the people he aims to touch. It might seem wild for someone to derail from their original path on becoming a surgeon if not because of the paycheck, than for the reputation, but Zayn can see how those incentives don't align with who Liam Payne is. The male’s ruthless perseverance is the ticket to changing the world, not his unbelievable genius. 

“Dr. Malik, good to see you again.” 

Too focused on trying to stay professional in a room with way more intimidating equipment than Liam had made it out to seem like, Zayn takes Dr. Twicken’s greeting as an improvement to his first addressing of Zayn as ‘professor’. He’s technically a doctor by virtue of being awarded a PhD, that’s true, but like his younger sister always likes to remind him and all of her friends: “ _Doctor_ Malik? Ha, Zayn can’t even stick his arm in the sleeve for a blood pressure test without having an aneurysm. He’s a fraud.”. However, the last thing he wants to do is worry the man laying on the table in the centre of the room by denouncing the title in a hospital setting, so he merely sends the older gentleman, whose uniform matches his and Liam’s, a tight lipped smile. 

“You too.” 

“Alright,” Dr. Twicken announces, “we’re all ready to go.” 

Two females stand near the volunteer, each giving Zayn an easy smile in acknowledgment before going back to checking their stations: one dedicated to the IV line and the other, well, Zayn’s not so sure what her job is, but by the way she’s nearest to the tray holding the necessary instruments, he doesn’t really want to know. 

“Any last questions Mr. Wells or are you ok?” 

The freshly shaven man turns his head to look at Dr. Twicken, the sight nearly making Zayn turn away knowing that that’s the position he’s going to be in when they need to do the “small” incision. 

“No, I think I’m fine,” the volunteer replies. 

Feeling a nudge to his side, Zayn glances to his right to see Liam pointing to the area in front of the huge flat screen TV that’s hanging on the other side of the bed. “I’m going to watch closer,” the younger male whispers, having to lean into Zayn’s space to do so. “You can stay here if you want.” 

This close, Zayn gets a strong whiff of Liam’s cologne. It grounds him unexpectedly with its tones of rosemary and exotic wood. Maybe if he swallowed his pride and joined Liam on the other side of the room, he could use the intoxicating scent as a calming agent, but Zayn’s stubborn and agrees to staying put in his spot. 

“Ok, well if you need anything just let me know,” Liam adds in his low tone of voice, the side of his head nearly touching Zayn’s thanks to their close proximity. “It’ll be over quickly.” 

_I need you to stay around longer_ , Zayn thinks as Liam walks off to take his place near the TV. He’s a grown man, has no one to blame for the creeping uneasiness that’s taking over from being two meters away from a scalpel, other than himself. Yet, Liam’s the familiarity in the room that Zayn feels himself being drawn towards in order to relax his nerves. He wants to be able to saddle up right next to him and drink in his refreshing cologne, focus on picking out the different hints of aromas that make it as addicting as it is. 

But Zayn’s pride makes it impossible to outwardly express that he can’t handle himself. Which equates to only one thing - standing in his corner, notebook opened to a fresh page, waiting for this to go by as quickly as Liam promised. 

“You shouldn’t be able to feel this,” he hears one of the nurses say. “Can you?” 

Against his better judgement, Zayn peers up and catches a glimpse of metal being put up to the volunteers neck. 

_Nope, I’m out._

As he’s about to split, before the action can be deemed as disruptive or disrespectful, hazel meets brown. 

Liam’s lips turn up and his middle finger comes up to push the bridge of his glasses further up his nose. Zayn’s adrenaline instantly dips. 

He can feel himself automatically smile back, the air in the room entering his lungs in a more refreshing way than it did a moment ago. Disappointing Liam, no matter in what way, isn’t something that Zayn can bring himself to do. 

Checking behind him, he gauges how far away from the wall he is. If he simply keeps his head down and uses his notebook paper to sketch, rather than record any important details of the procedure, maybe he’ll be able to keep his emotional well being in tact. 

It takes a few minutes for Zayn to tune out the play by play that Dr. Twicken’s giving to the volunteer as he guides the catheter tube through the man’s body. The speech is most likely a tactic to keep the volunteer’s mind at ease, but knowing the exact second the camera reaches the area below the collarbone doesn’t reassure Zayn, it only makes him squirm in his spot. 

On the lined paper in front of him, he focuses on gliding his ballpoint pen over the page in swirling motions. It’s not meant to, but the movements come together like hypnotically elegant designs that characterize van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’. Halfway through filling up the white space, he dares to break his trance and looks up. 

Brows furrowed together in concentration, Liam stands with his arms crossed in the same spot Zayn last saw him in. He’s pensive, studying the broadcast closely in a way that tricks Zayn into wanting to see what’s so interesting. The tangle of tracheal tubes is too much for Zayn to handle, eyes darting back down, even though the image has already been seared into his mind forever. 

After that mistake, he doesn’t ever lift his eyes again. Only briefly does he do so at the sound of Liam feverishly thanking his volunteer thirty minutes later when the procedure is finished. But even then, knowing what’s under the pad of gauze one of the nurses is holding up to the man’s neck, has Zayn closing his notebook and making a beeline for the door. 

— 

“You draw.” 

Zayn looks up from the packet of papers Liam printed out for him to read while he transported the tissue sample from the outpatient area, down to the lab. 

“I thought I saw you drawing during the procedure,” Liam adds as he takes a seat across from where Zayn’s been reading at his assigned desk. Gone are the unflattering scrubs; a light blue button down now sits snug across his broad shoulders. 

“Sometimes,” Zayn responds tepidly, still a little shaken up at the limited imagery that the day’s afforded him. 

He thought he’d be out of the clear once he was far away from the room with needles, but watching Liam check the samples under his microscope immediately after discarding his borrowed uniform, put things into perspective for Zayn in a way he thought he already understood. Those were _real_ pieces of some man’s _real_ heart that Liam had taken an hour recording vitals of. The five strips of tissue may only be a millimeter or two in length, but that didn’t stop Zayn from opting to sit back at the man’s desk in the office portion of the lab, far away. 

Time stretches out as Liam studies the pen in Zayn’s right hand that he’s spinning around. 

“Will you draw me?” 

Distracted by the way Liam’s birthmark moves when his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, Zayn forces himself to actually pay attention to the here and now. “Huh?” 

“Come on,” Liam insists, gently flipping over one of the sheets Zayn had been reading that dictated biopsy surgery risks. “Give it a go.” 

Staring down at the blank piece of paper clears Zayn’s head some. He’s not entirely sure _why_ Liam wants this, or what sort of Picasso he’s expecting to see as a final outcome, but it’s better than envisioning Liam’s unique blotch of dark skin getting cut open and defiled, so he complies. 

After glancing up to make sure that Liam’s neck is still unharmed and his imagination is only playing sinister games on him, Zayn puts his pen to paper. 

“I’m rubbish at drawing,” Liam says as he watches the older man start to get into a positive rhythm outlining his profile. “If I drew you, you wouldn’t be able to tell if I did it with, or without me glasses on.” 

Zayn’s tongue peaks out from his mouth to wet his lips swiftly, “You do know that you’ve just set yourself up to go after me, right?” 

Placing Liam’s eyes above the quick nose he’s just drawn, Zayn looks up to see just how wide his lenses are in comparison to his eyebrows, but he has to hold himself back from laughing too loud at the face the man’s pulling - eyes crossed and bottom lip pulling away from his top in the opposite direction. 

Quickly, he looks over his shoulder, grateful to see that his small burst of hilarity didn’t disrupt the only other researcher that’s sitting on the far end of the room; she’s still got her back to the two men, headphones in. 

“What are you doing?” Zayn asks behind a smile, impressed that Liam can hold the face through the small chuckles that are leaving his lips. 

“Modeling,” the student answers after letting up on his goofy expression. “Was I not doing a good job?” 

The boyish smile that’s now staring back at Zayn elicits the same response in him that Liam’s cologne did earlier - weightless comfort. 

“You-” Zayn’s teeth dig into his lower lip fondly. “One pose only,” he reprimands, going back to the drawing in front of him once he’s memorized the spacing he went looking for in the first place. “Don’t need to go showing off to everyone in the room. They might get jealous of your skills.” 

Far too shy to check Liam’s reaction to the line, Zayn opts to keep his eyes cast downward at the drawing that’s turning out to look more like a hastily drawn caricature than a Rembrandt. But because of the style’s simplistic nature, Zayn knows can’t keep uselessly shading the short strands of Liam’s hair forever to avoid the man’s stare - something that he’s been able to feel ever since the brave words left his mouth. 

“Now keep in mind that I teach about the _history_ of art, not how to make it.” 

Zayn’s nerves are immediately washed away the moment he looks up and sees Liam’s awaiting grin. 

“I’d think you’re great even if you were just the lad who sold the paintbrushes,” the man replies sincerely. 

There’s a warmth to Liam’s eyes that have them turning from chocolate brown, to light cinnamon; they carry the comfort of a piping hot mug of cider with a protruding spice stick. Thank god for the upcoming holiday season. 

“I think it’s incredible,” Liam follows up with once he’s taken the paper out from in front of Zayn and flips it right side up. “Like how you incorporated my birthmark too. I don’t think many people would think to include it.” 

The picture’s only from Liam’s torso up, so the small patch sits nearly centerstage, but Zayn still gets upset at the fact that, by the way Liam speaks about his birthmark, it seems like people in his past haven’t given it the attention it deserves. 

“It’s an integral part of how you look,” Zayn argues. “Anyone who would overlook it isn’t paying attention to Liam Payne.” He watches as Liam’s smile hikes up even further at the strongly worded belief. “That’s one of the most important things I remind my students of - what you see in a piece of art is a direct interpretation of what its maker saw as imperative to its overall message. Some art is just a straight depiction of what’s in front of a person at the time, but the artist’s almost always trying to make a statement by including something, or more importantly, _excluding_ something. Excluding your birthmark would be like saying I hate the part of you that, essentially, makes you the most you.” 

Swiping the pen that Zayn had used, Liam acts with fervency. He flips over another one of his printed out sheets of paper and goes to work. 

Unlike Zayn, he looks up nearly every couple of seconds. And unlike Liam, Zayn refrains from contorting his face into any laughable expressions; the younger man looks to be taking the challenge seriously, Zayn doesn’t want to throw him off by ruining whatever consistency comes with patiently staring straight on. He even manages to hold himself back from sneaking any glances down at the paper to see if Liam’s really as bad as he claims to be. 

“There,” Liam makes one final stroke with the pen before pushing it over to Zayn. “What do ya think?” 

Another round of Zayn’s hearty laughter fills the research lab. 

While Zayn’s quiff is perfectly spiked up and his thinly framed glasses aren’t too exaggerated in size, it’s the way Liam tried to draw his roll neck jumper up to his nose in an attempt to add a comical twist to the sketch that has Zayn checking his volume. 

“That you must be a psychic, because I used to do this exact same thing when I was a kid and my Mum always forced me to where one of these,” Zayn tugs at the thick material that’s folded over itself around his neck, “for family pictures.” His vision hones in on the small signature Liam made of his first name on the bottom corner of the sheet. 

Sense of humour? Check. 

“Mine used to always make me wear a full suit,” Liam says, but Zayn doesn’t register the words; he sees something more telling. 

“Is that supposed to be the freckle in my eye?” 

Looking at where Zayn’s pointed to the small black dot that just barely connects to the outside of drawing Zayn’s left eye, Liam nods. “It’s your version of a birthmark.” 

_And how dare I exclude what makes you one in seven billion?_ Zayn reads from the researcher’s thoughtful expression. 

“You know,” Zayn starts, “I’m not so sure I’m going to believe you from now on when you say you’re rubbish at something.” He sits back in his chair, relaxed. “You made it sound like you’re only capable of drawing stick figures.” 

“Yeah, well, I had a good model,” Liam replies with a cheeky smirk. 

“Or maybe just a cooperative one,” Zayn teases as he goes to collect the sheets of paper and place them back in their proper chronological order with the rest of the print outs. 

“Next time I’ll play nice.” Staying put, Liam watches as Zayn starts to pack up his things into his briefcase. “Which is when by the way?” 

A smirk of his own comes to his lips when Zayn hears the question midway through slipping the stack of papers into a folder. “I don’t know, you tell me. What are your next steps now that you’ve got your samples?” 

Liam takes a deep breath, “Well I’ve got to make sure they can survive the next few days in the petri dish before I start to let them grow.” Seeing that Zayn’s about ready to leave, he stands to walk him to the door. “How’s Friday? We can have lunch beforehand. I know a good place.” 

“Considering you’re Oxford’s welcoming committee, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” 

Hiking his briefcase strap further up his shoulder as they begin walking, Zayn glances to his side to see that Liam’s staring at the ground in thought. 

“The day I disappoint you will be the day I hand in my tour guide badge,” the younger man finally says as they reach the front of the room. 

Zayn stands, staring at the door Liam’s holding open for him, unsure how to unpack the promise that’s just been made. It’s open for interpretation, that much Zayn _does_ know by the way Liam looks back at him with a peaceful, indifferent expression. But fucking hell. Was he going to need to be this cleverly blunt from now on too? Because he might be able to go toe to toe with the bloke on the witty front, but he’s nowhere near that brave to go speaking in such an unfiltered way. If that’s what Liam’s expecting, then he better lower his standards real fast. 

“Won’t have to worry about that,” Zayn reassures him. “I’d take your advice just to hear your voice.” 

And before Liam has the chance to come up with something even flirtier than that and wipe the table with Zayn, the lecturer makes a mad dash for the lifts. 

_Having to sit in on real life surgery, resist the urge to chain smoke a pack, and engage in sharp flirting, all before noon. I need a nap._

XIS 

It turns out Liam’s Michelin Star recommendation is the third floor hospital cafeteria. 

Not that Zayn’s one to judge anything - or anyone - on first glance, but the moment he got Liam’s text that morning telling him where to meet, his stomach churned in protest. So far, the researcher’s coffee list, of which he was halfway through as of yesterday, hadn’t disappointed; therefore, the possibility that Liam simply had low food standards could be ruled out. On the upside, they were already in a hospital. Worst case scenario, he’s one room away from a prescription grade antacid and digestion relief. 

Pulling open the door, Zayn’s hit with a loud wave of plastic trays hitting tables and various conversations swimming into one another. Hazel eyes scan the room for a familiar pair of brown as Zayn mindlessly takes a few steps forward. 

The room’s filled with people of all ages. Doctors-in-training take over an entire corner of the restaurant, having pulled together several tables to include all in their group. Nurses are identifiable by their uniforms that vary in shades of blue, the radiologists in their magenta. It’s not hard to spot the doctors throughout the room since they almost exclusively wear smart dress; during his time outside the underground research lab, Zayn’s taken notice that it’s nearly foolproof to assume a person wearing a professional outfit is a doctor. There are exceptions to that rule, however. 

“Zayn!” 

In the middle of the dining room sits a smartly dressed Liam, waving to try and grab Zayn’s attention. The closer he gets, weaving in and out of circular tables, the better Zayn can make out two black stripes racing down each arm of the man’s white button down; it’s fashionable in the subtlest of ways and most definitely makes Liam stand out in the sea of monotone dress shirts. Even when he stands to greet the lecturer, Liam’s trousers aren’t the expected black, they’re navy blue. 

“You alright?” He smiles, reaching forward to give Zayn a hug. 

Liam’s only a hair taller than him, making their height difference perfect for Zayn to hook his chin over the other’s shoulder with the same warmth he’s being given. It’s a first for the two, yet the way that Liam embraces Zayn like he’s known him his whole life, holding him tightly without an annoying amount of pressure, makes the older man wish that they’d been greeting each other like this from day one. It may be brief, but Zayn takes advantage of their close proximity to drink in the scent that had been haunting his dreams the past few nights. The woodsy tones coming off the other’s lapel add to the allure of the moment, and thanks to Liam’s poignant explanation on dopamine the week prior, Zayn can safely say that he’s got another vice to look out for. 

“I’m good, yeah.” Glancing down at the spot Liam’s claimed for them, Zayn can see that light brown table’s barren besides a black portfolio. “You haven’t gotten anything yet?” 

Liam shakes his head, pushing the leather bound piece to the center of the table to show that it’s taken. “No, I was waiting for you.” 

Before Zayn gets the chance to decide whether or not it’s a good idea to leave his briefcase unsupervised at the table, Liam’s ducking and diving his way to the front of the service line. Not wanting to get left behind, Zayn has no choice but to keep the bag at his side. 

“When you told me you knew a good place for lunch, I really didn’t expect to wind up at the hospital cafeteria,” he says as he sticks close to the researcher’s lean figure. 

“There’s a reason I tend not to lead with its name.” 

As if to prove Liam’s point, along with the one Zayn’s gut had tried to make on the way up the lift, the first few metal basins look as though they’re troughs. Mushy peas are a British staple, but there’s nothing prideful about the way the side dish shines grey. Even the curry looks three shades too dark to be considered chicken korma. 

“There’s one thing on the menu that will blow your mind though,” Liam adds, peeking up and over the shoulders of the people in front of them. “I promise.” 

Shuffling down the line with their flat trays, Zayn starts to become hesitant on how much trust he should put in the vow. There are fewer than three windows of food options left, and from the less than colourful choices that sit behind them, it’s hard to believe that any of them could be flavourful enough to “blow his mind”. 

“Two,” Liam grins at the woman standing with the spatula in her hand. “And two Yorkshire puddings, please.” 

‘ **Shepherd's Pie** ’ reads the place card in front of the silver buffet tray. 

At this point, the mushy peas were less of a wildcard than the traditional mince meat dish. 

“You like Yorkshire puddings, right?” 

Staring up from the two large squares of pie that the woman’s served onto pristine white plates, Zayn meets Liam’s awaiting gaze. “Uh, yeah. Don’t think I’d be able to show my face back in Bradford if I didn’t.” 

“Make it four puddings.” 

As if he knows what’s going through Zayn’s head at the late addition, Liam explains his reasoning. “Next to Wotsits, I’m a sucker for Yorkshire puddings.” 

He doesn’t have the largest of appetites, but Zayn doesn’t want to dispel the enthusiasm in Liam’s eyes, so he simply takes note of the obsession silently. 

“I ran a 10k this morning too,” Liam adds as he takes each of their plates from the server and places them on his and Zayn’s trays respectively. “So I’m in need of carbs.” 

“And I can do with putting on around a stone.” That’s about all Zayn can contribute to the conversation. 

Liam looks back at him, giving Zayn a quick once over to assess how true that statement was. Although, with the chunky maroon jumper swallowing Zayn’s skinny frame, that might be a little difficult. 

“You’ve just got a small build,” Liam replies confidently. “You’re not unhealthy.” 

A short huff of laughter falls from Zayn’s lips, “If I bring you home for Christmas, will you convince my Mum of that?” 

As soon as the words come out of his mouth, the teacher realizes how forward he sounds. He’s just gotten over the stupor that came over him the last time he gave Liam the green light to engage in flirty dialogue. If he just unintentionally opened up Pandora’s Box yet again, he’s going to need to buckle his seatbelt and prepare his mind for the overdrive it’s about to be put in in order to keep up with Liam’s high caliber charm. 

“Depends,” the PhD student responds, “will she put a limit on how many Yorkshire puddings I eat with the roast?” 

“Would any mother?” Zayn disputes with a look of incredulity at the thought of his chef of a Mother cooking her usual meal set for an army and not allowing a guest to do anything other than eat their weight in food. 

“Then you know my answer.” 

How is Zayn meant to compete with game like that? He couldn’t even tell the man how stylish he thinks his shirt is, but now thanks to Liam’s setting the bar sky high for banter, he has no other choice than to fire on all cylinders. 

This is why he despised courting. Why isn’t there a pin that people can wear that alerts one another that they’re single and willing to skip the impressions bullshit; a few dates is really all it takes to know if you like someone enough to commit to them. Couldn’t the general population get on board with that methodology of finding a significant other? 

“Whoa, whoa.” It takes Liam alerting the cashier at the end of the assembly line that he’ll pay for both meals for Zayn to finally find his voice. “You don’t have to pay for me.” If anything, _he_ should be paying for _Liam_ ; the younger male’s the one doing the favor of granting Zayn V.I.P. access to the Heart Centre’s all-important research lab. 

“I don’t _have_ to, but I want to.” The man taps his credit card onto the card reader. “You’ve had this look on your face since you walked through the door, and I feel like if I don’t prove this to be any good,” he gestures down to the plate on his tray, “then you’ll be even more off put by having to have paid for it.” 

“Well, thank you,” Zayn says as the two make their way back to their awaiting table, already calculating how many cups of coffee he’ll need to buy Liam to eradicate his new guilt. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Letting his bag hang from the corner of his chair backing, Zayn recalls his chaotic morning after Liam goes on to ask him how his day’s been so far. 

“Do you listen to electronic music?” He turns around and asks. 

Carefully, Liam unfolds his cutlery from the napkin it’s wrapped in. “Sometimes, but not really on purpose. It might come up on a running playlist, but I don’t put those together. I just use ones I find online. I’m more of an R&B, hip-hop type.” 

Zayn’s not one to stereotype. How could he when he was a relatively well respected academic with tattoos crawling up his neck? But the two musical genres that were just voiced to him, most definitely weren’t the first he would’ve thought to be favourites of a man who just placed his paper napkin in his lap at an informal lunch within an - at best - C-grade hospital eatery. 

“Me too,” Zayn offers in a small voice, forcing himself to get back on track with his original topic before it evades him. “Which is why I nearly lost my mind when they tested me to see if I could identify the noise I was fed through headphones as glass scratching in C-Minor or C-Major.” 

“People do that?” 

“People do that,” Zayn confirms, ripping off a piece of his first Yorkshire pudding. “For two hours.” 

Liam’s eyes widen, “You did that for two hours?” When Zayn nods, he exhales loudly in disbelief. “What would da Vinci think about that?” 

“I really don’t give a shit,” the older male replies vehemently. “I’ll tell you what Zayn Malik thinks about it.” Liam raises his eyebrows with humoured interest. “It’s a load of bollocks. What possesses someone to want to do that in the first place? Like, what’s even the point?” As Zayn continues to work himself up, Liam stays amused. “Who was the one who had to go out and scrape glass along the ground to put together this ‘experiment’? Yeah, they told me it was to prove how music’s in everyday materials around us, not just objects, but _two hours_? You know what I didn’t even think about until just now?” Liam stays quiet for the rhetorical pause to play out. “Is that the _edited_ version?” 

The student’s shoulders shake with laughter, “You could’ve chosen a different department within the Humanities if you weren’t keen on...sounds?” 

“See?” Zayn shoves the rest of the Yorkshire pudding in his mouth out of frustration. “You can’t even label it.” 

“Hey,” Liam pauses cutting off a corner piece of his pie, “don’t bring me into this! The music department loves me.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, can’t be on their bad side if they don’t know who I am.” 

Mild irritation strikes Zayn the second Liam’s joke pairs together with his cheeky smile, though it passes the second the other uses the back of his hand to push up his glasses. 

“I thought it’d be fun - looking at da Vinci in a musical context, but it’s turning out to be a nightmare.” Without thinking about what he’s doing, Zayn portions himself out a forkful of pie and brings it up to his lips. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think I look forward to visiting the engineering labs more than the music studio.” 

“My lab’s better though, right?” 

Zayn’s about to play around with Liam, ask him if he can get a rain check because even though the Heart Centre might have a researcher who hooks him up with his favourite crisps, the postgrad engineers have promised to show him the mathematical derivations of their latest concept turbines for future aircrafts. And really, how can Wotsits compete with calculus? However, before he gets the chance to _purposefully_ launch himself into Liam’s area of expertise, Zayn’s taste buds punch him square in the jaw and any sad attempt at flirting goes out the window. 

“Sooo…” 

Wide eyes filled with giddy anticipation stare back at Zayn as he tries to process how to put words to the flavours of comfort that have just been revealed. Any bad words he ever said about the establishment, Zayn would take back. There’s something about the way the mashed potatoes mix together with the seasoning of the lamb that makes Zayn feel like he’s back home in the North, grabbing something to eat at the corner pub with his mates; to hell with the fancy shops, the extra pool of grease at the bottom of a plate is the only way comfort food _should_ be made. There may not be any heated arguments about whether or not Man U needed to change their striker to have a shot at winning the league that year to be heard in the surrounding chatter, but there might as well be a pint glass shattering to his left by the way this shepherd’s pie tastes. 

Instead of responding to Liam’s open ended request, Zayn goes in for a second bite, making sure to give it a small blow of air so he doesn’t burn his tongue like he nearly did with the first. 

“I should’ve never doubted you Liam.” 

A choked cough comes from the back of Zayn’s throat the second he hears the man across from him attempt to impersonate his thick Northern accent. 

“I was wrong about hospital food all along.” 

Zayn shoots him a pointed look that tells Liam not to push it. 

“I’ll always listen to everything you say from now on and never question your opinion.” 

If it weren’t for the water Zayn’s drinking from the bottle he’s just produced from his bag, the teacher would be putting a stop to this abuse of power. 

“And yes, of course your lab’s the best. The best in the whole of Oxford as a matter of fact. It’s got nothing on the engineering department and it _definitely_ can’t hold a light to the _bio_ engineering department, the tossers.” 

“Alright,” Zayn finally interjects once his throat’s well and cleared. “Calm down and step off your soapbox for a second. I did you a favour by keeping your name out of my drama with the music department, it’s only fair you do the same and keep my reputation in tact with the bioengineers.” 

“No, you don’t need a good rapport with them,” Liam grumbles. “You’ve got me.” 

Zayn’s both slightly concerned with the nerve he’s just struck, and mildly intrigued. 

“Do I?” He presses. “I didn’t realize I’d pledged some sort of allegiance when I signed your non-disclosure agreement a few weeks ago.” 

“It’s a thing.” 

A long sigh comes from the other side of the table, and even though Zayn takes notice, he would also rather go back to eating his pie while Liam elaborates on this hatred, than address it. 

“I only realized that bioengineers and regular scientists had bad blood with each other when I started at Oxford last year. In undergrad, I never really came into contact with them because I studied general medicine for most of my degree. I specialized in cardiology later on during it, so I didn’t get to see how pompous they can be.” Liam stops himself to hold out his hand, “I’m generalizing, obviously. I’m sure most of them are great, but the ones here think that what I’m trying to do is archaic, and a waste of time.” 

“But you’re trying to change the entire scope of transplants,” Zayn butts in, lost as to how someone could say that’s not worth pursuing. 

“Exactly,” Liam mutters while using his fork to play around with his food. “They think that the future of science is technology. That if you’re not altering something from its original form, then you’re not innovative. As if there isn’t human error in chemically modifying genomes or, I don’t know,” Liam huffs, trying to come up with a second example. “Creating artificial robot arms.” 

It’s risky in Liam’s current hyperactive state of being, but Zayn’s curiosity gets the best of him. “Isn’t there a team in your lab working on artificial heart valves?” 

A wicked smile comes over Liam’s lips. “They’re trying to see what the long term effects are on inserting metal straight into a person’s main lifesource. I hope they find out that it causes anemia.” 

He shouldn’t laugh at Liam’s overly dramatic wish, it wouldn’t be all that great of a find for those that are already living with biomedically engineered heart valves, but Zayn can’t stop the few chuckles from escaping him. 

“And the worst part?” Liam asks rhetorically. 

Frowning at himself for smudging his lenses with his knuckles in a poor attempt at rubbing under his eye, Zayn bends down to look into his briefcase for his glasses case. 

“They think researchers like me have way too much faith in natural science, and are unrealistically optimistic with how much we can do.” 

Out of nowhere, there’s a red microfiber cloth being handed to Zayn, the gold ‘LJP’ catching the light from the hanging fixtures above as the teacher nods in thanks. 

“I know it could take decades for my method to be considered as a first option treatment for someone with heart disease, but I’m willing to put in the work.” Liam watches, eyes narrowed in determination, as Zayn rubs circles around his lenses. “The _organic_ work.” 

“I believe you can do it.” 

Bringing his glasses up to his face, Zayn stares straight ahead; to check that he’s done a decent job clearing his smudge, and to also look Liam in the eye so the man can sense his sincerity. 

“Is exactly what the contract told you to say,” Liam teases graciously, diverting his vision to the cloth that’s being handed back to him when Zayn doesn’t break their stare first. “You read the fine print.” 

“Always.” 

Zayn surprises himself when he’s able to keep solid eye contact when he and Liam engage in another locked gaze. It helps that there’s a hint of a smile staring back at him, which he takes as a sign that its owner appreciates being heard. 

Even as Liam turns his eyes down, Zayn keeps his steady; the way the man’s cheeks flush a hue of rose is far too captivating for him to blink in any other direction. 

“So, hospital food…” 

Liam’s words cause the older male to break out of his trance and look at their half eaten lunches, abandoned for a heated tirade each. 

“Is this the start of your standup set?” Zayn snickers, portioning out himself another bite of pie. “Hospital food, what’s up with that?” 

Clean fork up to his mouth, Liam clears his throat, very obviously for dramatic effect. “I mean, really, what’s up with it? People think that just because they’re next to the A&E, they can serve stuff that looks like it’s crawled up from the sewer? But then again, the cafeterias are helping the economy - employing culinary school failures instead of leaving them to the streets. What better place to put their skills to use, but in front of a bunch of people who’ve lost their sense of taste from gastrointestinal barium testing?” 

Endeared by a technical scientific being Liam’s hard hitting punchline, a small shake of the head comes from Zayn; the telling smirk that wants to show itself is subdued while a particularly thick piece of pudding’s swallowed. 

“I think the music department might like you even more if you give them the opportunity to record the cricket sounds at your show.” 

A balled up napkin sails across the table and hits Zayn square in the chest, rolling down the jumper and settling into his lap. 

“Let’s hear what you’ve got then Whitehall,” Liam challenges while taking the time to eat. 

“Nah, I don’t do comedy on the spot.” Several black strands fall from Zayn’s quiff, onto his forehead, forcing the man to use his left hand to push the entire front swoosh back into place. “Would probably be sick if I had to go up in front of a group of people and do anything other than lecture.” The thought alone makes him tense. “I’ll stick to filling my weekends with the occasional museum visit and painting session.” 

“And by the rubbish reception you just gave me,” Liam says with a playful glare, “I apparently need to stick to playing footie.” 

A runner _and_ a football player. Zayn’s listening… 

“I’m not all that great on the pitch either, but at least the people on the sidelines don’t throw tomatoes at me when I get side tackled.” 

“First off, _you’re_ the one who threw something at _me_.” Zayn’s pointer figure joins his thumb to help illustrate his innocence. “Secondly, I was prepared to give you a proper round of applause, but you jumped the gun. And lastly,” he emphasizes before Liam can comment like Zayn can tell he’s itching to do based on the high spirited energy in his eyes, “How badly does it hurt to get run into like that? I’m not, but my Grandad was a huge football fan, and I always used to wince anytime we watched a match and it looked like one of the players got his shins shattered.” 

“Professional players have shin guards on, so I’m sure for them, not that badly, but I’m just a part of a six on six team that’s about as informal as they come.” With gusto, Liam points his fork at Zayn. “And let me tell you, yellow cards don’t exist in Sunday matches without a ref.” He takes a stab at what’s left of his pie, “I’ve had some months where I could barely get around without there being a noticeable limp to my walk.” 

_Months_ , Zayn thinks, horrified at the idea that pain could follow someone as intimately as their shadow for that long. Was it the kind of stinging that came in bolts, lighting up the expanse of your leg, but in a sinister way like an angry Greek God striking down in furry? Or was it the dull sort of ache that made you want to lay back in front of the fireplace so the heat could ease the throb away, and the crackling sound could ease your stressed mind? 

“It’s a good thing you know how to doctor yourself then,” Zayn points out. 

“Comes in handy quite a bit.” After using his napkin to rid himself of any food pieces that might’ve gotten stuck in his short mustache, Liam proposes a thought. “I know you said you’re not a fan, but if you want to get out and meet more people, you could always come watch a match. The boys I play with are me best mates. You’d get along with them well.” 

It’s been about a month since Zayn first stumbled in on Liam flicking through the file cabinets in Dr. Twicken’s office, a month of more facts on cardiology than will last Zayn a lifetime. And while that four weeks has given the older male a good foundation as to who the person is he’s been shadowing, it’s only been enough time to really scratch the surface. A look at Liam outside of an academic setting might be able to help Zayn peel back more of the other’s layers, while also forcing him out of his cave of a flat. But then again, it might also be yet another social situation where he spends the entire time swearing he never says yes to another invite that involves unknowns. 

“Maybe,” he replies. 

“We’ve only got one spectator, and that’s Louis’ boyfriend, Harry. Nicest lad on the planet, trust me.” 

Liam’s proven himself to be worthy of having a good judgement of character, but Zayn will be the one to give this ‘Harry’ his seal of approval or not. 

“So you’d have someone to talk to and not get bored,” Liam adds. 

“Is it in the morning?” 

Seeing that he might be breaking down the brick wall surrounding Zayn’s world of introversion, Liam starts to grow a smile. “No, we start at two at Merton Field, behind Christ Church.” 

“Maybe.” 

One word of ambiguity causes both Liam’s lips to turn down and Zayn’s’ to turn up. 

“Ok, well the offer is out there,” the former replies, his eyes quickly turning into slits when a powerful thought’s winning his attention. “But if I see you show up with a bag of tomatoes…” 

“Don’t worry, apples are much more my style.” Zayn’s tongue licks over his lips in an evil fashion, “Makes it so that the extra hurt will force you to shape up faster.” 

“You’re sick,” Liam responds, fake annoyance still radiating off him. 

“Should’ve thought of that before you made such an open invite.” 

With his final knockout line hanging in the air, Zayn sends Liam an overly sweet grin of satisfaction before filing his mouth with a taste of home. 

NEVES 

A parka, pair of leather gloves, a beanie, and boots that can withstand any amount of snowfall. That’s what you needed to wear in Bradford throughout the winter if you wanted to avoid frostbite. Oxford? Throw on a thick coat, maybe a scarf, and you’re good to go. According to Zayn at least. The coworkers of his that showed up to the department office in layer on top of layer, would probably disagree. At times the outfits were downright laughable, but it’s not his fault he found humour in how much they all made it blatantly obvious that they’re all from the south. What is his fault however, is the amount of boots that he still wears, even though it’s clear that the city he plans to spend the foreseeable future in, doesn’t require them. 

It’s in his nature to wear various types of boots, in his overall _look_. He remembers at eighteen, packing up his room to take with him to university, his mother standing in his doorway watching him stuff an entire piece of luggage solely with leather boots, a forlorn look on her face at her only son leaving the nest. He’d promised to return the carry-on sized bag when he returned home that year for Christmas, but as Zayn hastily throws open the door to the front closet where he keeps his prized possessions that Sunday afternoon, he’s met with the floral print canvas striking down on him from the highest shelf. 

After kicking the bag to the side a while cursing to the gods, he yanks out his maroon Doc Martens from the back of the closet, tossing them on in record time. 

Buses. Oxford seems to have gotten those right too. Like dedicating a route to only stopping at the main science buildings located around the city that Zayn’s more than grateful for with the amount of time he spends going to and from the hospital. Or naming certain stops after the university landmarks they’re relatively close to. If it weren’t for recognizable building names being called out through the loudspeakers robotically, more times than not, Zayn would’ve been furious at needing to back track. Thankfully, today wasn’t one of those days. 

Hands in the pockets of his black bomber jacket, Zayn makes his way from where the bus dropped him off outside an antique shop (that he definitely wants to come back and have a look in), down the narrow walkway that his phone assures him will open up to the field Liam had informed him of at lunch three days prior. And again, when they were leaving the research lab an hour after that. Somehow, Liam managed to include a rundown of each of his teammate’s’ personalities in that short walk too. It might’ve been a Hail Mary to get the teacher to come should the reason he was so hesitant to join be from not knowing how he’d fair with the others, but Zayn was just grateful that he could listen to something Liam had to say without needing to have his brain run at full capacity. Examining the heart tissue samples through a microscope and bearing witness to the way all the cells moved around on the glass slide was one thing, needing to keep pace with Liam’s update speech on the samples’ viability now that they were living outside of their normal environment, was enough information to have Zayn’s brain short circuit for a good couple of hours after. 

In fact, because of that fog, it takes everything in Zayn to be able to recall the bits and pieces Liam relayed about each of his friends’ characteristics as he trades the tan walkway with neatly trimmed green grass. 

He can cross Harry off his list first and foremost. The man’s just as Liam described him: a lonely occupant on the sidelines. Yet wearing a bright green jumper underneath a lengthy black peacoat doesn’t make him blend into the background in the slightest. He looks like he’s off to a casual dinner party, not settled down in a fold out chair ready to brave the cold December air for fifty minutes. 

_‘Harry’s got a real even temperament to him, always wanting to resolve any issues. Watch out though, if he starts to tell you a story, you better have some time to spare. He’s the slowest talker I’ve ever met.’_

Zayn’s looking forward to seeing if he really does speak as slowly as Liam’s follow up demonstration comparing the man to a sloth makes out. 

_‘Like I mentioned before, Harry’s going out with our defender Louis. They balance each other out pretty well, figuratively and literally. Tommo’s not the tallest of lads.’_

Eyeing the players on the field, Zayn picks out the shortest of the bunch quite quickly, a wide headband holding his long, brown fringe back from falling into his eyes. 

_‘He’s the one who put the flyers up around town to find extra players for a weekend team. Loves the sport for the sport, that’s for sure. Is actually fairly decent at it too.’_

Zayn can tell that that part’s true by the way he juggles the ball expertly using the insides of his soles once he steals it away from his opponent. 

_‘If you talk to him, you’ll see how seriously he takes it. Him **and** my flatmate Niall. You’d think we were playing in the bloody Premier League. Niall’s got an iffy knee though, which is a shame because he’s not bad at playing forward. He’s got a sarcastic tongue on him, but he’s the best. Nicest guy, always up for a good time, laid-back. You’d never be able to find a living soul that has anything bad to say about him.’_

It’s pure luck that as Zayn approaches Harry’s set up, he catches a glimpse at one of the players bending down to roughly shake his knee cap back and forth before going back to chasing the ball that’s coming towards him. 

_‘And you?’_ Zayn had asked. _‘What position do you play?’_

_‘I’m one of the three midfielders. Other two and our goalie are administrators at the secondary school Louis teaches drama at.’_

_‘Are you any good?’_

_‘If you come on Sunday, you’ll see for yourself.’_

And show up with crystal clear lenses he did. 

“Hey,” Zayn greets when he’s within a few meters of where Harry’s sitting mid-field. “Are you Harry?” 

The named man takes out the white earbuds that were obstructing his hearing and gives Zayn a bashful look at having ignored his approach. “Sorry, hi.” Standing up, Harry offers an open palm for a handshake. “Are you Liam’s Zayn?” 

Hearing himself be linked to Liam in such a possessive manor has Zayn feeling slightly embarrassed. If it were warmer, the heat that he can sense has rushed to his cheeks would be undeniable. 

“Technically, I guess I am,” he answers while returning the other’s’ firm grip. “Suppose that means he’s told you all about me.” 

“Just that you’re doing your own research that requires learning about his. Other than that, he only told me to look out for you in case you showed up. Which,” Harry gestures to the man standing in front of him, “you did.” 

“I did,” Zayn reiterates with a raise of his eyebrows. 

“And in the event that you did, I brought an extra chair.” From the ground beside Harry’s seat comes an identical one, simply folded up. Immediately, the man’s erecting it. 

Zayn has barely any time to come up with a gracious enough response before Harry’s sitting down in his own chair and patting its twin alongside it. His narrative skills might be slow, but there isn’t anything slow about the way he shows hospitality. 

“That’s really nice of you,” the teacher finally gets out, letting himself fall into the canvas seat. “Thanks.” 

“Of course. Are you hungry? Thirsty?” 

As if he’s pulled it out of thin air, Harry’s holding out a platter of turnovers. A glossy red filling is oozing out of one’s corner, calling Zayn’s name with its promise to satisfy his sweet tooth and keep his 3PM crash at bay. 

“I’ve got tea as well.” 

The plate’s snatched out from underneath Zayn’s fingertips as soon as he picks out the pastry from the bunch. 

“Is Earl Grey alright?” 

“Uh…” Zayn’s brain plays catch up while Harry pours the drink into a mug from a silver thermos, both items coming from whatever Mary Poppins bag the man’s got sitting on his side opposite Zayn. “Yeah, yeah, Earl Grey’s all good. Thanks.” 

“My pleasure. Tell me if you need more, I’ve got plenty. Sorry I didn’t see you any sooner, I was listening to a podcast.” To prove his point, he holds up the earphone chord he’s currently wrapping around his hand neatly, any hint of his picnic items, gone. 

“No worries.” 

Before the turnover makes his hands overly sticky, Zayn sinks his teeth into the crumbly pastry. Instead of the distinct flavour of cherry, he’s being met with a tart sweetness he hasn’t tasted in ages: rhubarb. Paired together with the tea he sips after, the pastry’s nothing short of heavenly. 

“Where’d you get these?” 

“Oh, I made them.” Glistening with wonder, Harry’s eyes follow the turnover on its way back to Zayn’s lips. “What do you think?” 

“It’s incredible,” the teacher replies, hyper aware of the food that’s still in his mouth, but not finding it in himself to go without giving an immediate, honest review. “I love rhubarb.” 

“You do? Not many people even know what it is.” As Zayn pops the last of the triangle pastry into his mouth, Harry pulls out his phone and starts to write a note to himself. “If you come next week, I’ll bring you some rhubarb infused cookies. If you like rhubarb, you’ll love them.” 

Zayn’s not so sure about becoming a sideline regular, but he’s certainly not one to turn down anything made by hand, so he nods in gratitude. “That’d be cool, thanks.” 

Without the distraction of Harry trying to offer him a four course meal, watching the football match like Zayn presumed he’d be doing when he decided to attend, becomes doable. 

It’s not a field intended for football, that much Zayn can tell. There aren’t any white lines of chalk outlining the boundaries, nor do the goals look like they’re permanent fixtures of the grounds. Even the neon green penny jerseys that six out of the twelve men are donning over their athletic tops are a sign of the team’s transience. 

Liam’s one of the six. His bright mesh jersey sits on top of a white t-shirt, which covers a grey, insulated long sleeve. He’s got a similar layering technique with his bottoms: black running tights under a pair of grey shorts that only cover a quarter of his thighs. Instead of his normal circular glasses, Liam’s wearing a set of goggles to help him see clearly; the visual aid a hybrid between swimming goggles and wide framed sunglasses. 

Hands on his hips, waiting for the ball to make its way back into the playing zone after it went flying out of bounds from a dramatic block, Liam turns his head just enough to pick up Zayn in his peripheral. Slowly, his face lights up. First comes the wide eyed recognition, then the creeping smile, which ultimately forces squished up cheeks to bunch up around his goggle rims. 

Involuntarily, Zayn grins back, a small wave of his right hand telling Liam, _‘Surprise. Looks like I couldn’t live without knowing how good you are.’_

Like a 183cm tall child, Liam waves back to his only fan. 

“Liam!” 

Both men look to the voice’s owner. 

“Pay attention!” Louis shouts, arms stretched out in the direction of the ball that’s just gotten past Liam. 

Guilt replaces the excitement on Liam’s face, yet with the ball already out of reach, he spares another glance back at the two fold out chairs. 

_‘I see you. I’m not going anywhere,’_ Zayn gestures by way of a head nod towards one of the goals; it earns him a lopsided smile in return. 

“So, what’s your research in?” 

Tearing his eyes away from the excitable midfielder who’s now running off to play chase, Zayn goes back to entertaining the man sitting next to him. “I lecture at the university in the History of Art department. On the side, I’m just doing some research on Leonardo da Vinci and how he’s laid the foundation for a lot of inventions currently being created.” 

“Liam’s a good one to watch over then.” 

Zayn makes sure to stay engaged in the conversation, even though he returns his vision back to the game. “He certainly is...” 

Near to the orange cone that distinguishes the far left corner of the pitch, Liam goes toe to toe with his opponent, attempting to force the man out of the invisible boundary line. 

“What do you do?” Zayn asks. 

“Do you know Hilda’s Bakery?” 

“Sorry mate,” he casts a short glance to his left. “Only moved here at the start of the term. Don’t know things by name yet.” 

“It’s on Beaumont Street.” 

Zayn’s mental map of the city scrambles to hone in on the right area. 

“Behind the Odeon.” 

He definitely hasn’t been to any films on his own, so that doesn’t help. 

“The Ashmolean Museum’s on it.” 

Bingo. 

“Ok, yeah, I know where _that_ is.” 

“Across from the museum, and a few shops down, there’s a bakery. I’m a pastry chef there.” 

A sharp hiss of disappointment comes from Zayn when Niall just barely misses a goal; a little bit lower and he would’ve had it. 

“Pastry chef?” When Zayn says the words out loud, the dots connect and suddenly it makes sense as to how his turnover was so refined. “How long have you been doing that for?” 

“My whole life,” Harry states proudly. “Since I was fifteen. I’m twenty-five now.” 

“Well it shows,” he says right before bringing his mug up to his lips and taking a quick sip. 

“Thank you. I’ve been trying to get on Bake-Off for years now. ‘S what I was listening to before you showed up.” The phone in Harry’s palm is angled for Zayn to get a good look at the ‘Great British Bake-Off’ podcast cover. “Applications for the next series just opened, so I’m making sure that I know everything there is to know about what’s going on during the off season just in case.” 

Because he’s genuinely curious about what that research looks like, and because allowing Harry to talk about himself for the remainder of the match will take the pressure off Zayn to have to come up with small talk, the teacher eggs him on with a simple, “what have you been learning and what are you doing to tweak your application this year to have it get noticed?” 

Turns out, Liam’s sloth impression of Harry Styles, wasn’t an exaggeration in the least. In fact, when he asks for the other to tell him more about the thought process behind listing as many baking puns as possible in under a minute as part of his video submission last year, he really only does it to make sure that his ears aren’t deceiving him; Harry really can’t speak more than a few words at a time without slowing down to half-speed. And as soon as Liam’s jogging over to grab a drink of water at half-time, he’s making sure to voice his findings. 

“You came!” The man exclaims when he makes it over to Zayn and Harry’s set up, his boots staying rooted in the grass as he visibly holds himself back from giving the now standing male a sweaty hug. 

“I did,” Zayn says, stepping into Liam’s space a bit more so the person he’s talking about can’t hear him, even though it’s clear that’s not an issue now that Louis’ off the pitch. “You were being nice with the impersonation.” 

Confusion hinders Liam from responding quickly, although as soon as the reference hits him, his eyes bunch up in jest. It’s a sight that, even with the athletic goggles on, Zayn finds breathtaking. 

“Meet the others, come on.” 

Their two person bubble’s broken when Zayn does just that, nearly getting his arm yanked out of its socket when Louis introduces himself. Niall’s a lot gentler, though Zayn doesn’t miss the mischievous glance the Irishman sends Liam post-handshake. The rest of the team doesn’t seem nearly as invested in him as the first two, which Zayn takes as a win; new friends are great, but not in batches greater than two or three at a time. 

Harry on the other hand, comes alive with the prospect of mouths to impress, hardly letting any of the players leave for home after the game without taking a turnover each. No matter if they were on Louis’ winning team or not, he isn’t about to walk off the field until he’s without any pastries. 

“Don’t think I forgot about your cookies for next week, Zayn,” he says as the teacher hands him his folded up chair. 

“You’re gonna come next week?” 

Liam’s hopeful tone hits Zayn hard, as do his big brown eyes. 

“We’ll see,” Zayn replies, not wanting to commit himself to anything as much as he didn’t want to get Liam’s hopes up if something else were to arise. 

“Well you’re definitely comin’ to the pub for a pint in a bit,” Niall interjects. “Aren’t ya? 

Caught off guard by the invitation, Zayn shifts his weight to his left leg awkwardly. “I, um…” 

“I run the place,” Niall adds, wiping at his red nose. “So it’s free, don’t worry.” 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Liam’s comforting tone eases Zayn’s rising anxiety to make a spur of the moment decision. “We usually all meet up after taking a shower, but it’s alright if you’re not up for it.” 

It’s not getting any warmer the longer they all stand there, but Zayn’s not going to subject himself to something just because he was put on the spot either. He’s got Melville and a nice, quiet flat to enjoy him in, only a twenty minute bus ride away. Then again, what’s stopping him from finishing his personal reading during the week? His mother would push him out the door with a beanie tightly secured to his head and say, ‘these people want to be your friends, go on and try’. 

“Where?” 

“Corner of Newton and Islington,” Niall supplies, rubbing his hands together now that his body temperature’s had the chance to even out. 

Zayn really needs to learn his street names. 

“Why don’t you just come back to ours and we can go together?” Liam offers. “Our flat’s only a five minute walk from here. Won’t take me any longer than that to jump in the shower.” 

Eyes are boring into Zayn from every angle, he can feel their stares, but he keeps his own focused on Liam to block out the pressure. 

“Sure,” he consents, wishing that the relaxation that’s just visibly entered Liam’s body could do the same to his. 

“Ace, we’ll see you guys you in a few.” 

Liam’s words act as a dismissal to the group of five, Harry and Louis heading off in the opposite direction as the other three. 

In the middle of reflecting on what it is he’s gotten himself into and how, in about an hour's time, he’s going to regret not being home, alone, in peace, Zayn’s reminded why he said yes. 

“I’m really glad you came,” Liam says as he wipes the remaining sugar granulates from his turnover onto his kit. 

“Are ya Liam?” 

The arm that Liam slings around Niall’s neck in a brotherly fashion comes off more aggressive than Zayn’s used to seeing Liam be. 

“Did you like the game?” Liam asks him, keeping his arm around his flatmate tightly. 

“You think he’s gonna say anything bad?” 

Out of the corner of his eye Zayn can see Liam tighten his grip, as well as his thin smile. “Let the man talk _Niall_.” 

Rather than bring attention to Liam’s losing battle, Zayn chooses to keep his thoughts of fondness to himself and provide some relief for his fellow academic. “I mean, you guys won, so I’d say it was pretty good. You’re both decent players, but that goal you made after half-time was sick.” 

“You think so?” Niall asks for good measure. 

“Oh yeah,” Zayn replies with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. “The way the ball just sank into the net from the corner? Real nice, that.” 

“You know, Louis doesn’t give me enough credit for my corner shots.” 

As soon as Zayn’s compliment has successfully launched Niall into a self-centred football rant and away from giving his flatmate a hard time, the lecturer sends Liam a sly wink. It’s not much, or at least to Zayn it’s not, but to Liam, it must be. The lad’s left arm immediately falls back to his side, and he can barely meet Zayn’s eyes for the remainder of the walk. Maybe letting Liam in on his attraction isn’t as taxing as Zayn initially made it out to be. That, or the other’s just a sucker for smooth actions. Without being too sure, Zayn plays it safe and assumes it’s the latter, storing the information away as he does his best to avoid bumping arms with the researcher more times than is justifiable. 

“Don’t you agree though?” Niall asks a few minutes later, stopping in front of a door that leads inside a bundle of flats. “If we ran a 1-3-1 formation, we’d-” He hits a snag in his train of thought when pulling his keys out from the front pocket of his backpack. “Fuckin’ lanyard,” he mutters to himself, yanking the material hard and nearly pelting Zayn in the process when it comes loose. “As I was saying, if we ran a 1-3-1 formation, we’d have a much better shot at longer offensive possessions.” 

With the door now open and Niall’s monologue following him inside, Zayn holds back from accepting Liam’s silent offer for him to enter first. 

“I’m gonna hang back. Have a smoke real fast.” 

Nerves grow as Liam stares back at him indifferently. He’s unsure if it’s a smart idea to be focusing on the irony behind holding his breath as he waits to hear how Liam will take to his blatant disregard for a healthy heart, instead of filling the murderous silence with _something_ , **_anything_**. 

“Here,” Liam pulls a single key out of the slim pocket sewn into the waistband of his running shorts. “We’re the upstairs flat on the right. Take your time, I’m going to try and beat Niall to the shower first.” 

There’s a flash of a smile being directed at him, and then Zayn’s left to his own devices. 

He plays with the silver key that’s been placed in his palm, twisting it around as if there’s an element of entertainment to the metal as opposed to its heaviness matching how Zayn currently feels. 

The flats are situated on a back lane, right off the city’s main street, causing for its noise to be muffled down to a low roar. The isolation from being tucked away should be cozy, a feeling akin to being hugged by the business around the location. But it’s not. It’s the opposite of the social atmospheres that enticed Zayn into smoking when he was a teenager. In a way, it’s sobering; _you’re not invincible, reality’s knocking_. 

From the depths of his left jacket pocket, Zayn pulls out the beat up box that’s been hiding. And for the first time in a long time, his stomach lurches at the warning label along the packet. 

— 

“Zayn?” Niall calls as soon as the man’s taking off his boots in the front doorway of the flat. “You like golf?” 

“No, not much of a sports person if I’m honest.” 

The sound of water cascading down can be heard coming from the narrow hallway Zayn’s kneeling in. 

“None? Not even rugby?” 

“Nah.” 

“What about American football?” 

“Never seen a full game, but I doubt it.” Zayn enters the sitting room where Niall’s splayed out on one of the two couches, and offers him gum. The man shakes his head against it. 

“What _do_ you watch then?” 

“Depends,” he replies right before unwrapping a stick and bending it into his mouth. “Documentaries or random stuff. But not sports. I think they’re quite boring.” 

“Boring?” Niall finally stops flipping through channels to stare at Zayn in shock. “You think never ending strategy and the unpredictability of each game is boring?” 

“I-” 

“Niall! You’re up!” 

“This conversation isn’t over,” the Irishman threatens as he hoists himself up off the couch and to the shower Liam’s just left vacant. 

Miraculously, Zayn catches the remote that’s tossed to him along the way. 

_Debating sports in a pub. Who have I become?_

He nearly texts an old friend from London about the out of character situation he’s just won himself, but Liam walks into the room wearing a pair of khaki trousers below an olive green hoodie, and Zayn’s immediately pocketing his phone. 

“Find something good on?” The younger male asks, taking a seat on the same couch as Zayn, leaving enough space between them for someone else to join if they wanted to. Whatever sports recap show Niall had landed on is still playing on the flatscreen in front of them. 

“I’ve already started a war I don’t want to finish,” Zayn prefaces as he glances at the commentary round table staring back at him. “I wasn’t about to make things worse by changing the channel.” 

“Niall’s just passionate about sports, he’s not actually going to kill you.” Liam snatches the remote that’s sitting between them. “Do you like reality shows?” 

“Not particularly, no.” 

“Neither do I.” Bringing his legs up so that he’s sitting criss-crossed on the sofa cushions, Liam leans his head on his propped up fist while channel surfing. “Comedies?” 

This is going nowhere. 

“Why don’t we play a game?” Zayn suggests. “I don’t see a certain flatmate here to stop you in protest.” 

Liam’s up and off the couch in less than a second. “Here, come pick something.” 

Underneath the entertainment center, there sits two piles of video games: one for the outdated XBOX, and another for the PS4. Settled on the ground next to Liam, Zayn’s about to look at the titles making up the latter, but a box with cobalt blue edges catches his eye on the next shelf up. 

“You like Batman?” 

Glancing over at the Blue-Ray the other’s pulled out, Liam’s eyes brighten. “Like would be an understatement.” 

The area where Zayn found the film is being pointed out to him with purpose. It’s then that the teacher realizes movies are what fill up the rest of the shelf, but _only_ Batman movies. 

Liam’s got Batman live-action films, Batman cartoons, Batman _anthologies_ boasting extra features or commentaries that can’t be found on other versions. There are old series collections from past Batman TV shows, Anniversary sets, Lego Batman, and even a double feature Scooby-Doo themed Batman DVD. 

“If you don’t like superheroes, then this is up there for one of the most embarrassing moments of my life,” Liam laughs half-heartedly, a pathetic attempt at playing off his nerves. 

“Don’t like superheroes?” 

Liam chances a look at Zayn in nervous anticipation as to what words will follow the rhetorical ones, surprised when the male begins to pull his right arm out of his jacket. 

“Does this look like something someone who doesn’t like superheroes would get?” 

Liam's face lights up when his eyes land on the huge ‘ZAP!’ tattoo in the middle of Zayn’s forearm. It’s in the style of a comic book onomatopoeia, the capital letters and punctuation in yellow blocked out font within a black splatter of paint. 

“You…” 

When Liam fails to say anything else, Zayn glances up at him and sees why: his eyes can’t seem to stop on any one tattoo for more than a few seconds without moving on to another. Seeing as though it’s probably better to just get everything out of the way in one go, Zayn wiggles his left arm out of its sleeve too. 

“Holy shit,” Liam breathes. 

“It’s not done yet.” Zayn twists his left wrist so the underlying part of his arm that’s mostly bare can be seen. “But there’s no rush.” 

“Sorry, it's just,” Liam blinks back his surprise. “I haven’t seen you in short sleeves before. I could only go by the ink on your hands and neck.” 

Instinctively, Zayn reaches up to where the black and red ‘25’ lives right below the left curve of his jaw. “Yeah, the sleeves tend to hibernate for the winter.” 

“Oh,” the younger man feigns guilt, “well in that case, I don’t want to disturb their sleep.” 

Zayn can feel his small bits of laughter through the vibrations that travel from his throat, to his palm. “You’re alright, it’s only December 1st. This is just their preparation period.” 

As his hand falls back into his lap, Zayn notes the smile that sits on the other’s lips. Should he try and make a joke out of the rest of the pieces hidden to the public to see if it’ll lift the grin higher? 

“Meanwhile, the ones on my chest and back think that the lights around my flat are the sun. They haven’t seen any other type of brightness since I accepted a dare back in graduate school to sunbathe on the roof of my flat in the middle of winter.” 

Success. 

Liam’s rocking back in his seated position on the carpet, letting out a laugh that could rival the most colourful stained glass works in existence; or a Matisse original with its natural portrayal of beauty that actually took the artist a painstaking amount of time to perfect. Zayn wishes the French native was still alive to capture the sensational sight and sound in oil paints for him to keep forever. 

“Did you get a tan?” Liam asks once he’s settled back down on Earth. 

“I got a layer of frostbite.” 

“Same thing.” 

Ducking his head down, Zayn’s met with the bat symbol staring back at him behind a plastic sleeve. “Would it be like asking a parent which of their kids is their favourite if I ask you who your favourite Batman is?” 

“If you’re talking about portrayal, then no, that’s easy - Michael Keaten. But that doesn’t mean the first Batman is my favourite film. You’ve got Batman & Robin with the best use of sidekicks because it’s got Robin **_and_** Batgirl, The Dark Knight for best villain with the Joker, Batman Forever has the best batmobile.” He shakes his head before Zayn has the chance to retaliate. “I don’t care what you say, it’s the coolest design. The newer ones are trying too hard to be military tanks.” 

Zayn sways his head in consideration, respecting Liam’s reasoning, but also seeing a few loopholes that could be explored. 

“There’s the gadgets that he uses,” Liam continues with determination. “You could look at the cinematography, which is by default getting better with each release. I could even give a favourite based on who plays Alfred and his role in the film.” 

Numerous questions pop up in Zayn’s head now that he’s aware of this obsession of Liam’s, but there’s one that takes precedence over the others: “Why Batman?” 

Shrugging, Liam allows for his body weight to tilt his left shoulder into the entertainment center. “I think there was just something about Batman being able to defeat villains in the same explosion filled climax as other superheroes, without any powers, that I thought was the coolest thing. Still do think it is,” he corrects himself. “Nothing crazy happened to him - he wasn’t bitten by a mutated bug or a victim of a toxic spill or born on another planet. He just grew up really determined to right the wrong in the world by taking advantage of what his money could get him. That’s a proper superhero.” 

Leaned up against the wood shelves, Liam’s regular metal glasses catch the light in the room and change the frames into a momentary mask. 

“Does that mean your loyalty’s strictly aligned with only Batman, or have you allowed yourself to pledge a separate allegiance to other superheroes?” Zayn asks as a means of precaution. 

“No, I’m open minded,” Liam reassures him. “DC, Marvel, it doesn’t matter.” 

“X-Men?” 

“Pretty sure it was a toss up between Storm and Batgirl as my first crush.” 

“Oh yeah?” Zayn chuckles, “Pre-teen Liam had a thing for feisty girls in tight costumes?” 

“A few years later, _teen_ Liam found Spider-Man cute too though, and he’s arguably the geekiest superhero there is.” 

Just when Zayn thought he had the upper hand on this flirting thing, he feels the apples of his cheeks gather heat. 

“I always sort of hoped I’d get bit by a spider just so I didn’t have to wear glasses anymore,” he confesses when he hears Liam go back to shuffling through the video game boxes they were on the floor for in the first place. 

“Not to swing from building to building?” 

“I hate heights.” Zayn returns the DVD box he’s holding back to its rightful place. “I’d be the worst Spider-Man on the planet.” 

The beep that signals one of the gaming consoles is booting up goes off. 

“It’s alright, I think it was the glasses and shy personality that made me fancy him, not the web slinging.” 

In the middle of pulling out another title, the flush on Zayn’s face shoots down his neck in record time. 

_Think of something witty Zayn. Something that can make him blush for once; you’re always the one bloody blushing. Tell him how jealous you are of the fact that he can pull off thick frames **and** sport goggles. Let him know how impossible it is for him to look as striking as he does in gym kit and a lab coat. Speak!_

“Street Fighter? If we go fast, we can probably finish a match by the time Niall’s ready to go.” Liam rummages around for the second controller that’s fallen behind the console. “Pretty sure I charged the other controller after Louis was here last…” 

The boxer on the front of the game case mocks Zayn with his impenetrable confidence and judgemental stare. 

“Yeah, that’s cool.” 

Retrieving the black controller from the shadows of the dusty abyss, Liam examines the DVD in Zayn’s hand while he waits for it to start up and show its battery level. “Have you seen that?” 

Zayn looks down to reread the film he pulled out: **Batman vs Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles**. “No, but I sort of want to. They’re both protagonists. Why would they fight each other?” 

A smirk of delight creeps onto Liam’s face. “Forget Street Fighter.” 

The movie’s taken out of Zayn’s grasp and instantly opened with a loud ‘pop!’ from the plastic side latches being released. True to his word, Liam ditches the Street Fighter game, and takes the controller with him back to the couch, Zayn following close behind. 

“Obviously we’re not going to finish, but you can borrow it if you want,” Liam says as he gets comfortable on the couch while the menu screen loads. 

“If it turns out to be anything like Batman v. Superman, I may want to burn it instead.” 

Zayn turns his head to see how Liam takes to the comment, grinning widely when the man simply purses his lips and hits play on the controller. 

“No comment,” Liam mumbles in reply. 

As the flatscreen goes black and Zayn folds his jacket neatly at his side, the water to the shower gets shut off. He gives it about ten, fifteen minutes tops, before he’s slung into the ring and forced to discuss one of his least favourite topics of all time, if anything, just to stay on the pub manager’s good side. 

Or maybe Christmas’ come early. 

“I kinda wanna stay here and finish this,” Liam speaks lowly, leaning his head into Zayn’s space when Niall’s bedroom door opens ten minutes later. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

It may be a movie intended for audiences under the age of twelve, but Zayn can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the screen to look Liam in the eye and add on to that. He doesn’t even do so when Niall’s off key singing gets louder as he grows closer to the sitting room. 

“We’ll meet up with them later.” 

Zayn can’t be bothered to reply to the man next to him, there’s a fight sequence starting and he wants to- 

“Hey Niall?” Liam calls in the direction of the hallway after he puts the film on pause. 

Zayn’s eyes narrow at the freeze frame. 

“Yeah? You lads ready to go?” 

“Actually, we’re going to meet you there later.” 

Standing at the opening of the room, the male finishes tucking his black top into his matching black trousers. One look up and he’s rolling his eyes. “This makes so much sense now,” Niall mutters as he takes in the two grown men just itching for him to leave so they can go back to their cartoon. “I’ll tell the others know to start without ya.” 

“Cheers!” 

Zayn stays quiet as he watches Niall take one more glance at the TV screen before moving on to the front entryway. 

“Can I push play?” 

Hazel eyes refocus from the room’s archway to Liam’s awaiting brown ones. They’re filled with so much eager energy that even if Zayn despised the Caped Crusader, he’d still say yes, just so that those lights don’t dim. He imagines Liam probably feels the same when the film ends and Zayn asks if it’s possible for them to watch another film from Liam’s Batman collection that he hasn’t seen, instead of leave the safe confines of the flat to spend time at a place he’d much rather avoid. 

There’s a minor debate on what pizza toppings to order from Liam’s top choice when they eventually get hungry (“are you a butcher? No one orders salami on their pizza Liam.” “Just try it, ok?”), but he’s having far too good of a time for it to taint his good mood. 

Although, having to admit that Liam was right about food yet again? Yeah, that might’ve resulted in a scowl or two. 

THGIE 

Being a student during the last week of term always felt like the sky was falling for Zayn. He always thought that being on the other end of things - creating lectures, assigning readings, answering emails - would be a different, less stressful, experience. He was wrong. 

_Where’s my pen? I’m a bloody teacher and I don’t have a pen? How’s that even possible? I’m sitting in my office - a university staff office - and I can’t find a single pen? If I wasn’t so old school and preferred editing on actual sheets of paper instead of online documents, then maybe this wouldn’t be a problem; you can redline with a mouse nowadays._

Leaning back in his leather chair, Zayn takes a deep breath and tries not to let the piles of lesson plans he has stacked up around the edges of his desk get to him. They’ve been waiting for him since he got in on Monday morning. Then, a fresh faced Zayn, energized from his lazy Sunday film marathon that went strong for six hours before he called it a night and left Liam with a chin-hooked hug, was ready to tackle the final week of Oxford’s Michaelmas Term 2019. The three students that came in for his extended office hours after his Monday lecture, back to back to back, should’ve been his red flag warning on what to expect from the week. Two days later and he’s no longer anywhere near fresh faced. 

_I should go out for a smoke before any other students start to trickle in._

When he pushes back in his chair to make space for pulling out the desk’s center drawer where his spare lighter lives, a shiny red piece of plastic catches his eye. 

_Thank god._

The pen’s a lot farther than Zayn originally anticipated, so he bends at the waist to reach it since his arm can’t on its own. 

Three soft knocks on the door startle the man, his head slamming up against the underside of the oak desk. 

“Son of a…” 

“Are you ok?” 

Zayn blinks back the automatic tears that come to his eyes from the stinging, and raises himself back up into a sitting position. Liam waits patiently for the answer to his question with wide eyes. 

“I’m fine,” Zayn growls, rubbing the back of his head as if that’s the answer to subduing the pain any. One swipe up and his fingers catch the back tip of his glasses, causing them to topple off his face. Instead of trying to catch them, Zayn just lets them fall and stares at where they’ve landed on his desk haphazardly; Liam stares too. 

“Long day?” 

“Long week.” 

“It’s Wednesday,” Liam points out. 

“Don’t remind me.” 

Sighing, Zayn picks up his frames, holding them up to the ceiling lights in order to make out if they’ve scratched or smudged any. 

“Here,” Liam pulls out his microfiber cloth from his grey trousers and hands it over. 

“Thanks.” The time hits Zayn when he’s in the middle of wiping his left lens. “Please don’t tell me that I forgot we had a meeting right now.” 

“No, no,” Liam rushes. “I just got off the science bus. Thought I’d stop by on my walk home to see if you were here. I brought cookies.” From behind his back comes a petite brown paper bag. “Best ones in town.” 

The aroma of chocolate chip mixed with woodsy cologne brings relief to Zayn’s throbbing skull. 

“Have a seat,” he offers, handing the cloth back over now that he’s finished using it. “You’re free to stay unless a student comes.” 

While Liam gets settled in the visitor seat that’s not occupied by Zayn’s briefcase, the teacher does his best to scrounge up two napkins from his miscellaneous drawer. 

“How’re the samples?” 

Speaking about Liam’s research like its a baby makes Zayn rethink his wording, but Liam’s enthusiastic response proves that to be unnecessary. 

“Doing great! Eight days with me now and they’ve all stayed alive. Yesterday I started measuring their static growth, but today I put them in the nutrient solution that I think is going to help them grow.” Carefully, Liam shakes the cookies out of the bag and onto the napkins Zayn’s laid out. “I took videos for you, don’t worry. I know you don’t like seeing the tissue in person.” 

“I swear that when I went into this, I didn’t realize that I’d react that way to something so small.” 

“It’s like I told you,” Liam says as he watches Zayn play off the fact that he didn’t just try and figure out which of the two cookies were bigger to take, “I’m patient, it’s ok.” 

“You’ve got an amazing palette too,” Zayn raves after taking his first bite, a few crumbs dirtying his notes in the process. “Are these from Harry’s place?” 

Guilt overtakes Liam’s features. “Don’t tell him.” 

“You’re the reason he hasn’t gotten on that show in six years.” 

“I’m not!” 

Zayn snickers at the other’s enthusiasm to prove his innocence. 

“He’s great at making things I can’t pronounce,” Liam adds, “but sometimes the best things are the simplest.” 

“Made with three good quality ingredients and love sort of a thing.” 

“Yeah exactly,” Liam responds after he’s tilted his head back to save a chocolate chip fragment from falling off the right corner of his mouth. “It’s been a while since he’s made the team something normal actually. Maybe his recipe’s changed.” 

“He’s dead set on making me rhubarb infused cookies on Sunday, and I’m looking forward to eating them. Don’t go messing that up for me.” 

Rather than go along with Zayn’s playful banter, Liam smiles warmly at the man. “So you two get along well then.” 

“You know,” Zayn starts, “you made him out to be like he was just a supportive boyfriend. He’s a water boy on steroids.” 

Liam covers his mouth so bits of cookie don’t come flying out while he laughs. 

“He is,” Zayn reaffirms as he breaks himself off another piece of his baked good. “I walk up and he’s like a vending machine. I probably could’ve asked for a Lucozade and he would’ve had one tucked away somewhere.” 

“He’s a giver, always has been since I’ve known him,” Liam says. “I think Louis gives him a hard time for always having sweets around the house, so bringing them to the game every week lets him bake as much as he wants without getting in trouble. I certainly don’t mind it, and I certainly don’t mind the tea either. My body’s warm from running around, but a hot drink at half-time and after the game doesn’t hurt.” Zayn simply nods along, finishing off his cookie. “But I’m glad you guys get on.” 

“Mhmm.” 

“And I’m glad you’re going to keep coming to games.” 

Before he answers, Zayn looks past Liam’s shoulder to the office’s open door. “I had a good time, so I don’t see why I wouldn’t.” 

“So I was right?” Liam taunts with a know-it-all smirk. “About you not regretting going, and meeting the guys?” 

Zayn grits his teeth. 

“And about my salami pizza?” 

Reaching forward, he crumples up the brown bag into a tight ball. 

“And about my cookie choice.” 

“You came here unannounced with them,” Zayn bites, tossing the rubbish into the bin. “I didn’t have any time to be stubborn and protest.” 

“So you admit you’re stubborn.” 

Without hesitation, Zayn’s teeth catch his bottom lip, the snear all in good fun, but most definitely a dead give away as to what Liam’s insistence is doing to him. “You’re lucky I like you,” he deadpans. 

“Or what?” 

Liam’s proud smirk shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, Zayn’s trying to stay annoyed at him. 

“Or you’d be finding your way out the same way you came in.” 

The fact that the younger male asserts his position by folding one leg over the other proves to Zayn that he’s worth going on this little chase with. 

“Then I guess you’re right,” Liam replies. “I am lucky you like me. Very lucky.” 

Keeping eye contact with Liam feels like a contest. There’s no telling what the prize is for winning, but Zayn’s too afraid of what the punishment might be more, so he shoves down his nerves and stays steady on. He can almost make out Liam’s heart beat in the way his pupils can’t remain one size, struggling to hold back from revealing their owner’s emotions. The tunnel vision they’ve created removes Zayn from his surroundings, and while he should be concerned as to what this might look like to someone on the outside (see: his entire student roster that could show up at any moment), it’s that same discomfort that pushes Zayn to commit to the stare. 

“I’ve never told you, but I really like your briefcase.” 

Zayn - 1 Liam - 100 

“It’s my most prized possession,” Zayn discloses, turning his eyes to the dark leather satchel. “My parents got it for me when I got into my master’s program.” 

“Looks like it costs a fortune.” 

“It probably did. I’ve always been too nervous about what I might find to look it up.” Doing the same as he did with the paper bag, Zayn gets rid of the napkin and leftover crumbs on his desk. “I was the first person in my family to go to uni. That in itself was a huge deal, especially getting into one of the best schools for art history in the world. The top for postgraduate research, that’s for sure. So when I decided I wanted to do more schooling, and got in again for my master’s, they surprised me with that.” 

Liam’s hands reach over to feel the quality of the strap. 

“I’ve got three sisters,” Zayn continues as he watches the other. “It was really hard for my parents to provide for all of us, but I never could get over my love for leather. Leather jackets, leather boots, leather notebooks. Not the cheapest of hobbies.” 

“How do you think _my_ parents felt when I started asking for microscope sets?” 

The way Liam stares back at Zayn with humourous understanding gives the older male a sensation of comfort. “You get it then.” 

Liam nods, “I do, but I only have two sisters.” 

“The one extra makes a difference, trust me,” Zayn says with emphasis. 

“You made it out in one piece.” 

“Or so it seems.” 

Liam didn’t have to deal with the younger two learning how to tag team and the older entering beauty school at the same time. It was those few years of Zayn’s adolescence that he learned the true meaning of patience. 

“Did they get you anything when you started your job here?” Liam asks innocently. “If they were proud of you for your graduate school studies, then I’m sure this must’ve blown them away.” 

A fond smile comes to Zayn. “For getting into my PhD program they got me a leather passport cover, since I needed to travel quite a bit to do primary source research. But for this,” he shakes his head, still unable to comprehend how they managed to pull it off. “For this, they got me a leather watch band.” 

Liam leans forward over the desk to look at the vintage watch that’s wrapped around Zayn’s left wrist. 

“The watch was my Grandad’s. He was real special to me, like,” Zayn pauses, not expecting for the emotions that are being stirred up inside him, to surface. “When he died, he left me his watch. He’d always go around, dressing in suits and stuff, and I always thought that was so sick. That he didn’t care any, you know? Like, he didn’t need any special occasion to get dressed up, he just would.” 

“That’s cool,” Liam says softly when Zayn takes another moment to himself. 

“Yeah, it really was.” Leaning back in his seat, the lecturer twists his wrist so the light catches the silver hands underneath the glass. “He wore this watch all the time, but it broke right before he passed. Dropped it, and just never got it fixed. When it became mine, I took it to every shop in Bradford, but every repairman either said it was impossible for the pendulum to be put back in place, or that it would cost a fortune to try, and if it didn’t work, it’d be ruined. So I never tried, just kept it in a safe place at home. All that my parents told me when I asked how they managed to fix it, was that they found someone in Switzerland who instilled enough faith in them to ship it off.” 

“Your parents sound like they’re the best.” 

“They are.” 

“It looks good on you,” Liam tells him. “It fits. Timeless, unique.” He meets Zayn’s eyes once more when they look up. “It’s not like one of those modern, flashy, expensive watches. Although, I’m sure it’s worth a lot with it being vintage. It’s because of the mechanics and craftsmanship, not its meltdown value.” 

Silence falls over the room as Zayn processes what Liam’s just laid out. 

“Why are you single?” 

Surprised by the response, Liam chuckles nervously. “I’m not sure how to answer that. Why are _you_ single?” 

“New town,” Zayn shrugs with a smile fit for a cheater. 

“No, no, no,” Liam laughs. “I’m not letting you use that excuse.” 

“It’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.” 

“Ok, so let’s assume it’s the truth and you moved here yesterday instead of two months ago,” Liam glares playfully. “When are you going to consider Oxford your home?” 

It’s not an easy question to answer, Zayn knows Liam understands that, and that it’s a part of his plan to corner Zayn with his own lie, but being reminded that this isn’t just another academic program, he doesn’t have an end date that will reward him with a piece of paper for his time, makes thinking about permanency a little unsettling. 

“I’m not sure,” he replies honestly. “When it starts to feel like it, I’ll let you know. I promise.” 

“Hopefully you won’t wait until I graduate next Spring.” 

Another feeling of disturbance drifts through Zayn’s body. 

“Where are you going after that?” 

“Wherever my research leads me,” Liam answers, eyes bouncing over Zayn’s keyboard and books amongst the numerous piles of papers. “If this current method of growing tissue is successful, then I’ll look for a research hospital that will hire me to develop it further. And if it isn’t, then I’ll publish my thesis at the end of next year and look for another research body that will believe in me like Oxford, and work on a different approach there. Maybe do a postdoc fellowship, I don’t know. Whatever it takes for me to get it right.” 

“Maybe that’s why you’re single,” Zayn comments as he rubs the back of his head to feel for any forming bumps. “You’re too perfect. You need a little bit of danger to you for people to want to stick around.” 

“Is that so?” Liam’s right eyebrow quirks up, causing his glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose ever so slightly. “What’s so dangerous about you?” 

“Did you miss the bit about my leather jacket collection?” Zayn tosses back with a hurt expression that Liam would forget such an important piece of information. 

“No, but I guess I missed the bit where you wear them to ride your motorcycle through rings of fire.” Shaking his head, Liam pushes up his frames. “Reading about da Vinci on the bus doesn’t make you a bad boy just because you’ve got on a leather jacket. Don’t know what book with a skull and crossbones on the cover’s been telling you that, but it’s wrong.” 

“I take back what I said.” Crossed arms come up as Zayn’s emotional blockade. “You’re single because you hate on the things that make potentials happy.” 

“You know that Batman makes _me_ happy.” 

Oh no, Zayn had been in enough relationships in the past to know to never take this sort of bait. It’ll always turn around and bite you in the ass. No matter what. 

“Just because that’s why _you’re_ single, doesn’t mean that’s the reason I am.” Zayn hugs his arms closer to his chest. “I choose to be single.” 

“And why’s that?” Liam pushes inquisitively, as if he isn’t sure whether or not the words are truthful or part of Zayn’s banter. 

Given that Liam’s willing to take this even a little bit seriously, Zayn decides to give him a real answer. “My introversion seems to always get the best of me.” 

Liam’s eyebrow goes back up, but not with the intention to come off mockingly. “So, you think people don’t want to be with you because you’d prefer to go to a museum than a pub quiz?” 

“I’m gonna turn twenty-seven next month, not fifty-seven.” 

“Doesn’t matter how old you are,” Liam argues, “if that’s what you like, then that’s what you like. Even if someone doesn’t enjoy it, dating is about compromise. At the very least, they should make you feel like it’s ok to be yourself.” 

“Nothing traumatic’s ever happened to me or anything, I just-” 

“No, I’m sorry,” Liam sighs, a sound that instantly relaxes Zayn’s arms back down. “I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it, I just don’t like the idea of people not being comfortable in their own skin. We joked about it before, but getting bullied for wearing heavy prescription glasses made me realize that stereotypes are the worst, and just because you might fall into them a little bit, doesn’t mean they should demean your other characteristics.” 

The medical lanyard with Liam’s department ID card swings across the man’s chest as he readjusts himself in the chair. It, along with the office they’re currently sitting in, are testaments to the stereotypes they both wound up falling into, but the tattoos hidden under Zayn’s henley and the athletic build hidden under Liam’s button up are proof of their individuality outside of what their glasses label them as. Even though he had been the more vocal one towards his bullies, it’s clear that Liam’s outgrown Zayn in the ability to stand confident knowing that his originality is attractive. 

“I like who I am.” Zayn’s voice is sturdy, but he hears it in himself, how important the conviction is. “I just worry that at our age, that’s not the most riveting person another would want to date.” 

“You’d be surprised.” The way Liam speaks so candidly gets the best of Zayn, until the man’s bringing out his phone. “When’s your birthday?” 

“January twelfth.” 

Liam’s fingers type away on the small screen once the date is given. “Are you a surprise party sort of introvert?” 

“Not at all,” Zayn replies with certainty. 

“Good.” As he’s sliding his mobile back into his pocket, Liam sends the other a cheeky smile. “Because otherwise that wouldn’t have gone very well.” 

Behind the scientist’s shoulder, a young girl comes into view, stopping in the doorway like she’s not sure what to do when the person she’s come to see is busy. Before she has the chance to leave, Zayn waves her in. 

“You’re alright,” he reassures her, Liam turning around and immediately standing when he sees he’s obstructing the real reason Zayn’s door is open. 

“I’ll see you Sunday?” The younger male asks before he starts to make his way out. 

“Yeah, you will.” Two smiles are exchanged in reply, but right before he forgets, Zayn calls out Liam’s name once more. “Thanks for stopping by.” 

“Thanks for not making me eat two cookies.” He pats his flat stomach twice and then disappears from view. 

ENIN 

“So? What do you think? Do you love them?” 

Having his mouth full, gives Zayn the chance to think over his answer carefully. With the vibrant flavours dancing around in his mouth, Harry was going to get a positive response to his loaded question, that much Zayn knows. What he’s unsure of, is how to express his thoughts in a way Harry will appreciate. Which means ‘they’re really good’ is out of the picture. 

Taking a sip of his Earl Gray eliminates the dryness from the shortbread, and allows Zayn to wet his lips briefly. “I do,” he nods, using the napkin Harry’s handing him to wipe off any excess crumbs from his hands and mouth. “You toned down the tanginess of the rhubarb well with…” Zayn’s eyes search Harry’s for some sort of reassurance that he won’t roast him, should his guess be incorrect. “Cardamom?” 

“What!?” 

From the back of the football pitch, Louis’ head swivels over in concern to where Harry’s staring at Zayn in utter disbelief; the teacher’s shrunken back into his borrowed fold up chair. 

“How did you know it was cardamom?” Harry’s body leans towards Zayn’s as he dissects him with his eyes. “How do you even know what cardamom is?” 

“I didn’t realize it was a secret spice,” Zayn replies carefully, treading water lightly until he knows it’s safe to fully engage in more risqué banter. 

Realization shrouded in shame comes over Harry’s expression. “Sorry, that made me sound so pretentious, when I’m not at all.” 

Zayn silently agrees, which is why he was so surprised by the outburst. 

“I’m just not used to people outside of the bakery knowing as much about abnormal ingredients as you,” Harry continues. “Louis barely knows the difference between all purpose and baking flour, so I guess I’m just used to assuming others are as clueless in the kitchen as he is. Which I shouldn’t be.” 

To be fair, Zayn most likely wouldn’t be able to know which flour to buy without looking at a recipe either, but he wants to stay Harry’s golden child for as long as possible, so he chooses not to comment on that portion of the man’s response. “It’s ok, if it wasn’t for my Mum using a lot of spices growing up and my right arm being “made to stir”, I wouldn’t know anything either.” 

Harry eases up at Zayn’s air quotations, although his smile’s still not as full as it usually is. “You were a nice son,” he jokes. “I used to shove my Mum out of the kitchen any chance I got. She shouldn’t be allowed an oven.” 

“That bad, huh?” 

“You’d think it was common sense that you shouldn’t fill a cake tin all the way to the top, yet I’ve gotten more FaceTime calls than I can count where the camera’s pointed at a glob of batter draining down the racks and her wondering where she went wrong.” 

“At least she’s got you,” Zayn mentions before taking a sip of his tea and looking back out at the game that’s playing out in front of them. “Imagine if she didn’t.” 

“That’s a scary thought.” 

A huff of cold air escapes from between Zayn’s lips, his eyes locked on Liam’s legs that are bare apart from a pair of shorts that have a small ‘West Bromwich Albion’ crest on the bottom right leg corner. Zayn couldn’t even bring it upon himself to fight Liam on the choice when he first saw it. The team is such a token of _home_ , of how Liam is unabashed with his likes and dislikes, that Zayn didn’t use his limited knowledge on England’s most popular sport and ridicule the rubbish team. 

“Louis’ still got until next Friday before his school’s off for the holidays, but Oxford’s finished now, right?” 

Darting his eyes around the field, Zayn finds Louis on high alert, walking around with his hands on his head while the ball’s kicked around far away from his territory. 

“For the students, sure. For the teachers,” Zayn tilts his head in disappointment, “not so much. Both of my classes culminated in papers, so I’ve got the fun job of grading them all and trying not to crush too many souls before Christmas.” 

“Can’t you just give them all firsts?” 

Sneaking a glance to his side, Zayn finds Harry playing around on his phone. 

“You were the teacher’s pet, weren’t you?” 

Harry looks up when he feels eyes on him and his screen. “You call it being a teacher’s pet, I prefer to call it exercising my charm.” There’s a sickeningly sweet smile to prove the male’s words. “It’s an arbitrary thing really.” 

Zayn’s not entirely sure that it is, but he’s not going to argue with the bloke next to him, not with the amount of confidence that’s oozing out of him. 

“Yeah, well, as easy as it would be for me to just go down the line and give them all 80’s,” Zayn replies, “I’m choosing the high road.” 

“I take it that means you’re not going to have any time to come to the pub after this.” 

The green of Merton Field is a lot easier for Zayn to look at than the green of Harry’s iris’, so he turns his head back to the game. 

“I’m not really sure,” he shrugs. “We’ll see.” 

Like he does with the grass under his heavy boots, Zayn pushes down on the rising weeds of angst that threaten to find themselves a spot in his overgrown garden of a brain. Now isn’t the time he wants to break it to Harry that he most likely isn’t going to ever join them at the watering hole. Not if he was a heavy drinker, and certainly not if Liam keeps offering up his Batman library as a suave excuse. 

“If it makes you feel any better, Liam doesn’t drink when we go.” 

Zayn’s eyebrows knit together in surprise at what the other’s revealed, vision staying on the game that’s starting to pick up speed. “He doesn’t?” 

“No,” Harry confirms, “just sticks to ginger ale. Niall always takes the piss out of him, but he’s serious about wanting to practice what he preaches. I don’t think drinking a couple pints once a week is gonna send him into cardiac arrest, but what do I know?” 

The two person cheer squad erupts in a round of applause when Niall scores a tricky goal. 

“I’m just not a big fan of loud places like pubs,” Zayn confesses, giving Liam a wide smile in acknowledgment of his work with the assist. 

“That’s alright. What we’ve got here,” Harry points to their makeshift stadium stand setup, “works in my favour. I’m not missing out. I get you to myself for an hour, uninterrupted.” The smile Zayn had put on, stays willingly. “And we always see Liam at least once sometime during the week anyway. Honestly, he can probably use a break from Louis trying to sneak a Jäger shot into his soda.” 

Harry taking a sip of his tea, prompts Zayn to do the same. He’s overwhelmingly grateful for the easy acceptance, and surprised at the admittance of how fond Harry is of their time spent together, all the same. For that, he decides to indulge the both of them and allow for the rest of their time in the cold to be filled with stories of the few times the group’s managed to get Liam drunk. 

There was last New Year’s Eve, when they all took a trip to London and Liam let himself go at the last pub of the night, singing random TV show theme songs on the walk back to their hotel after taking one too many shots of tequila. Or the End of the Year football party that Louis insisted on having last June, even though there were only two teams in the league (both of which _he_ put together), where Liam was introduced to a champagne version of beer pong that Louis dared him to play without his glasses. But Zayn’s favourite story by far revolved around drunk birthday boy Liam going around the restaurant they got reservations at, telling random tables that he’d pay for their bill any time one of the others took their eyes off him for a second. 

Those memories, ones that were shared with him at a snail’s pace and not his for remembering, stuck with Zayn on the walk to Liam and Niall’s flat later on. He trusts Harry, but he wonders how the instances he relayed might sound if Niall were to give his renditions. Yet, when they reach the building and Liam hands him his key and reminds him of his flat number, Harry’s words about how Liam likes to practice what he preaches, come rushing back. 

As he takes a long drag from his cigarette, the sting in the back of his throat from the sulfates burning his skin doesn’t give him relief, it makes him feel guilty for ever convincing himself that this is a good way to warm up his chest on a cold day. There was a boy upstairs that, if he asked nicely, would most likely do that for him. 

Squinting behind two glass circles, Zayn looks around at his surroundings. Bricks in varying shades of brown cover Liam’s building, and the neighboring ones, in a charming fashion. A lone bicycle sits up against one of the walls, as if its owner just needed to run in and get something quickly, careless towards the sign directly above it that reads ‘DO NOT PARK BICYCLES’. It rained yesterday; an outline of where someone left a first floor window open, pressed up against the bricks as well. Somewhere, cooped up in one of the nearby flats, a dog barks. Zayn takes one last pull and then stomps the half-finished cigarette out on the concrete. 

— 

When the first thing the teacher hears coming through the front door is the blaring flatscreen, he braces himself. However, he relaxes once more when untying his boots allows him to listen to the narrator and realize they’re not commentating on sports. 

“In order to create the CGI background, we needed-” 

Liam hits pause when he catches Zayn in his peripheral, hovering in the sitting room’s entrance. “Do you like the Hulk?” 

Taking a few steps forward, Zayn observes how Liam’s short hair is damp - and not from sweat. 

“Yeah, a lot.” The closer he gets, the more he can make out the smell of the man’s Old Spice body wash. “Was I really outside for that long?” 

Liam checks his non-existent watch, “Or I was extra fast this week.” He nods in thanks when Zayn points out where he’s setting the flat key on the glass table that’s smashed in the corner of the room. “I thought today we could watch something other than Batman. I mean, I don’t mind, but it’s been a while since I had the opportunity to watch any of my other superhero films on the big screen.” 

Standing near the flatscreen, Zayn glances at what must be one of the DVD extras showing how 2003 animation worked. Although he could probably guess from Liam’s grey sweats and Oxford hoodie, what his answer would be, Zayn asks anyway, “You don’t want to go to the pub?” 

“Do you?” 

Zayn takes off his leather jacket so he can hide the deep breath he needs to take after hearing Liam’s answer. “That’s not what I asked,” he replies, padding over to the sofa. 

“I told you, it’s not everyday I get the place to myself before sunset. Especially not on the weekend.” 

Before he tosses his jacket on the arm of the couch, Zayn retrieves his trusty packet of gum and points it at the other. “Do I get to choose the takeaway this time?” 

“No.” Liam grabs Zayn’s wrist to stop him from putting the spearmint away; he meant the food, not that he didn’t want any gum. “Until Oxford becomes your home, I’m in charge of all decisions that are made in relation.” 

“All? That seems a bit unfair.” 

“So is lying and using ‘newcomer’ as your excuse for not wanting to answer simple questions.” 

Zayn tosses his phone to his side so it doesn’t inhibit his ability to get comfortable for the film that _Liam’s_ decided to watch on behalf of them both. “Push play,” he responds sarcastically, leaning back and forth to stretch his shoulders under his white tee. 

“I’m gonna make some tea first.” Hand out for Zayn’s gum wrapper, Liam stands. “Do you want some?” 

“Please.” 

Shuffling around in the hallway can be heard when Liam disappears, but it’s Niall who’s claiming the noise. 

“Payno? What are all these boxes out in the hallway for?” 

“Christmas decorations! I’m gonna put ‘em up later.” 

“What are ya doin’ that for? We’re not even gonna be here for Christmas.” 

“I like for December to be festive.” 

Zayn smiles down at his rugged black jeans. 

“Fine, but make sure they’re not here when I get back. I might trip over ‘em when I get in after closing.” 

“I will. Have a good shift!” 

“Thanks. See ya Zayn.” 

Niall’s voice at a normal volume takes Zayn by surprise, causing his head to jerk up when he hears his name. 

“Bye.” He sends a small wave along with his even smaller response. 

“Be careful, these are really hot,” Liam warns when he’s walking back into the sitting room, a steaming mug in each hand. 

When Zayn’s thanked him and settled the mug in between his legs to keep warm, he expects for Liam to get on with the film, but he can see the man hesitate in doing so. 

“Can I say something?” Liam blurts out. 

The pesky weeds from early have found their way through the dry ground yet again. This seems important by the way Liam’s working his bottom lip with his teeth, so Zayn swallows his nerves and nods in acknowledgement. 

“I promise I won’t bring this up again, and it’s not really my place to be doing it to begin with, but…” 

Liam’s words are already out in the open, floating around in the small space between them like a bubble waiting to burst, but he still looks troubled on whether or not he wants it to pop. 

“I don’t know, I guess I just want to know-” 

“Liam.” 

“Why do you smoke?” 

As if he’s got a paper in between his lips right then, Zayn feels his throat close up some. Eleven years have gone by since the first time his lungs inhaled a handful of carcinogens, and since then, every time someone’s asked him that exact question - Why Zayn? Why are you choosing to kill yourself slowly? - he tells them to mind their own business, he’ll be fine. But tapping his fingers alongside the mug decorated in snowflakes, taking the sting from the ceramic like he deserves it, Zayn’s instincts don’t kick in. He doesn’t automatically flip Liam the bird like he taught the younger male to do when people give you a hard time, nor does he feel like he should either. All Zayn truly feels, is shame. 

Excuses present themselves. Sarcastic, recycled, they’re all there for Zayn to choose from. Maybe letting the weeds fester this one time, will postpone their next sprouting longer than normal. 

“I started just because it was a social thing. A lot of the other kids in my class were doing it and I wasn’t the best at inserting myself into conversations. Smoking areas, they’re like, built-in social circles.” Saying it out loud, a decade later, really shines a light on how idiotic teen decisions can be. “If I had to be there, and they had to be there, then for a few minutes, I was automatically included in the group.” 

To his right, Zayn’s leather jacket slips down the edge of the sofa and lands on the floor with a soft thud. Perhaps if he picked it up and slid it on, its weight would calm him. 

“Do you still feel that way? That it’s difficult to talk to people organically?” 

Zayn’s head hardly picks up at the sound of Liam’s voice - gentle, yet still strong with its concern. 

“I’ve grown into myself a lot since I was sixteen.” 

As a stretch of silence comes over the two, Zayn peeks up at the TV screen, wishing he had it in himself to laugh at the stark contrast between what’s staring back at him, and the topic Liam’s driven them into. 

“Men who only smoke one cigarette a day, have a forty eight percent higher-” 

“Liam,” Zayn interjects softly, head bowing down with the heaviness of what the man at his side is trying to do. 

“No, please.” The grip Liam has around his mug tightens in desperation, mirroring the tone of his voice; ironically, the sound causes Zayn’s heart to squeeze. “Please, just...” He sighs. “Men who only smoke one cigarette a day, have a forty eight percent higher risk to contract heart disease. In America, there was a study that found twenty percent of deaths from heart disease were due to cigarette smoking. A year after someone quits, the risk of contracting a coronary disease cuts down to half of a non-smoker, and after fifteen, it equals out with them.” 

Again, silence takes over the sitting room. 

An image of his blackened and burnt heart replaces the mug of tea his vision’s currently stuck on. The thickening of his blood, like it’s black tar oozing through his veins makes Zayn feel uncomfortable in his own skin, even though he knows that if he was brave enough to prick himself, he’d see that it was a normal crimson red. He wants to quit just to get that pout off Liam’s lips, that he doesn’t need to see to know is there. But if addictions were that easy, he would’ve listened to his mother’s pleas to better his health a long time ago. 

‘Thank you’ is right on the tip of Zayn’s tongue, but the sound of the film starting, beats him to it. 

— 

“It’s the white man’s curry, Liam. I’m not eating Chicken Tikka Masala when there’s a nice daal on the menu.” 

“I’m done trying to convince you to listen to me.” With the confirmation that their order - all food choices made by _Liam_ \- is on the way, the man abandons his phone and gets up from his spot on the couch. “Come help me while we wait.” 

Zayn frowns at being left alone, the menu screen to The Hulk looping back on itself his only friend. As petulant as he may be, he hauls himself up and joins Liam in the hallway with the small pile of brown boxes labeled ‘XMAS’. 

“Are you going to get a tree?” Zayn asks, right shoulder leaned up against the wall, hands in his chino pockets. 

Rather than Liam giving him a verbal answer, he holds up a pointer finger. 

Unless he has a fake tree that folds out like a tent, there’s no way a Douglas Fir’s about to come out from any of the boxes Liam’s currently ruffling through. It didn’t occur to Zayn that there were options other than that. 

“My Mum sent this to me during my first year of uni.” 

Out of a significantly beaten up box, comes a miniature tree, not even a meter high. Weighted burlap makes up the base, while the green branches have lights peaking out around them. 

“It was the perfect size to put on my desk back then.” 

Zayn follows Liam as he carries the tree into one of the two open bedroom doors behind him. 

“And it still is now.” 

Standing in front of Liam’s room, the first thing that comes into Zayn’s mind is: more white walls. At least the large queen sized bed that takes up most of the room has a royal red duvet covering it, otherwise Zayn would need to give Liam a lecture of his own. The younger male’s on the floor, underneath his desk that’s to the immediate right of the doorway, trying to plug in the tree’s lights. There’s some colour to that area through the various book spines littering the shelf, but that’s about it. And Liam makes fun of _him_ for not being settled in yet… 

“Can I get a drumroll?” 

Zayn tilts his head at the man’s request, “You won’t be able to see it on the ground like that.” 

The tree comes alive with different coloured lights and an annoyed huff. 

“You really hate to listen,” Liam grumbles as he shuffles out from under his desk, face breaking out into a smile when he sees his personal Spruce tree. “Looks better every year.” 

“Have you got little ornaments to put on it?” 

“No, I like the simplicity of the lights,” Liam grins, tucking the tree into the back corner of the desk’s alcove so the lights can illuminate the otherwise dark area of the workspace. 

They may be cheap pieces of plastic and the colours themselves might be far too sharp to even be considered acceptable for a child’s crayon set, but when Zayn flips the switch on his right, the tree’s lights bring the bedroom to life. 

“Nice,” he says softly to match the mood. 

“Very.” 

Only a few seconds pass by before Liam’s turning the main lights back on and shooing Zayn out into the hallway once more. Thankfully, the two boxes he’s instructed Zayn to carry aren't all that heavy. 

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Liam says as he drops his two next to Zayn’s on the couch cushions. “The easy ones.” 

A sly smile spreads across Zayn’s face at the words, and it gets even wider when he looks at what’s inside his first box: a set of throw pillows, one that says “Happy” and another that reads “Holidays!”, a blanket whose pattern consists of small candy canes, and two standard red and white stockings shoved alongside the edge. 

Next to him, Liam opens one of the boxes he carried and pulls out an artificial wreath. Small pinecones decorate its front side, along with a red bow on the bottom, and another string of lights, though these look transparent, not colourful like Liam’s seasonal desk lamp. 

“I forgot I bought these,” he thinks out loud, pulling out two decorative reindeers. 

“Is this _all_ yours?” Zayn starts to take out his box’s contents. “None of it’s Niall’s?” 

“It’s all mine,” Liam confirms with a peaceful smile. “I’ve got a bit of a problem. You can blame me Mum. Come December first, no matter what day of the week it fell on, she’d make my Dad bring out all of the Christmas decorations, and my sisters and I would help her decorate the house. Don’t tell them, but I liked it better when they moved out; I got to do more.” 

When Liam looks over, Zayn crosses his heart in solitude; _your secret’s safe with m_ e. 

“My first year alone without any of them was a bit depressing,” the younger male admits. “Which is why getting that tree was such a big deal for me. Throughout the years, I’ve ended up collecting a few things here and there.” 

Folding the festive blanket over the back of the couch and tossing a pillow into each of the corners takes less than a minute. 

“You’re a week late,” Zayn notes as he tries to figure out what to do with the stockings. 

“I know, I know.” In front of the entertainment center, Liam steps back to see if the shelves he’s set the reindeers on, look presentable. “But you were here and I didn’t know if you’d want to help.” 

Zayn walks over, stockings in hand. “What did I do to change your mind?” 

“Nothing,” Liam steps forward to adjust the right deer so that it’s closer to the left, “just be you. I was going to put everything out when I got home the next day, but it’s not as special doing it alone.” 

Liam’s pointing to two plastic hooks on top of the wooden structure, held in place by Blu Tac, most likely a convenience left from the year before, but Zayn pauses to stare at the hand that’s giving him the directions instead of moving forward to place the stockings right away. If his blood ran black like tar, then perhaps, in that moment, it’s possible for Liam’s to run molten red like lava. 

“When’d you get this?” Zayn asks when the two stockings are hanging side by side on the makeshift mantle piece and he’s on to his next box, noticing a string of letters that spell out “MERRY CHRISTMAS”. 

Liam glances over at the craft that Zayn’s pulling out in an accordion fashion. “I made it one year in uni when I was doing a placement in a pediatric hospital. The kids were making things to decorate their rooms, so I made one with them.” 

Visions of Liam sitting around a children’s size table, low to the ground with safety scissors and glue sticks in front of him come to Zayn’s mind. He wonders if Liam would’ve used a higher pitched tone when talking with the children, and if he would’ve worn anything special under his white student coat around the hospital during the last month of the year; because it’s Zayn’s daydream, he’s giving him a snowman tie. 

While Liam goes to fetch fresh batteries for the wreath’s battery pack, the teacher takes note of the letters’ red and green glitter shedding off the decoration and onto the carpet. 

“I nearly switched my speciality to pediatrics after my time there,” Liam says as he walks back into the room. “But it takes a certain kind of person to be able to handle sick children all day and not take those emotions home with them. I know myself; I get far too attached. Besides,” he rips open the package, “I’ll be able to do my part helping sick children when my research is successful. There’s nothing that will stop it from being applicable for smaller hearts.” 

How much pride Zayn feels from simply _knowing_ someone as selfless and headstrong as Liam surprises him. He wouldn’t put it past the researcher to drive himself into the ground for his dream to become a reality, and when it does, Zayn expects ‘Payne, Liam’ to be the first name on its donation registry. 

“I watched the footage you sent me of the submersion baths you’ve been putting the samples in,” he says, waiting for Liam to be done so he can be instructed on where to hang the shimmering exclamation in his hands. 

“Yeah? What’d you think?” 

“First, I’d like to say that I thoroughly enjoyed your small skull and crossbones emoji in the email’s signature.” 

Liam’s eyes squish shut with laughter, “Is that the reason you wore your Hell’s Angels jacket today?” 

Even though he plans on ignoring the jab, Zayn still ditches the craft and goes to pick his jacket up from off the floor where it fell almost two hours ago. 

“The way you treat the muscles like they’re living things,” he starts once the leather’s back on the sofa’s arm, “instead of tissues that require a host, is exactly what Leonardo did. He thought of the heart as an unbelievable creation, but one that’s made up of many different parts, each requiring their own source of nutrition; if they were codependent, they wouldn’t be able to function on their own if need be. In his drawings, it was important for him to illustrate that they were members of a team. I noticed that.” 

The lights of the wreath shine a soft white and brighten the fake green bristles, but Liam doesn’t move to hang it up above the flatscreen where there’s another awaiting hook. He’s examining not only Zayn with admiration, but also the words that just came out of his mouth. 

“Will you show me his drawings of the heart one of these days?” 

Zayn smiles softly, “Of course.” 

Satisfied, Liam goes back to placing the wreath in its rightful place. “Do _you_ have any Christmas traditions?” 

“I’ve got fond memories of my family gathering around and playing cards on Christmas evening after we’d eat.” 

Liam nods, both to how the wreath looks, and Zayn's familial pastimes. “I always tried to steal more cookies when everyone moved from the dining room to the sitting room after we ate.” 

There’s no time for Zayn to reply, Liam’s back in front of his first box, taking out three Santa hats and tossing one to the older man before putting one on himself. “How’d you find out Father Christmas wasn’t real?” He asks, eyes drilling into Zayn while he waits for him to join in on the light dress up. 

“This dork with glasses ruined it.” 

Zayn can see the moment it clicks for Liam to realize that _he’s_ the dork Zayn’s referring to - his eyes going from curious at wanting to learn more about who had put such a damper on a child’s belief, to slits once the humourous smirk on Zayn’s face answers the question for him. 

“I’d bet you were on the naughty list more times than not,” he guesses, still holding his playful glare. 

“You would’ve lost your money if you did.” In his hand, Zayn turns around the fuzzy hat until it’s facing the right direction, then places it over his quiff. “I was an angel.” 

“What’s the best thing Santa brought his favourite patron saint?” 

As Liam places thumbtacks into the wall for the letters Zayn’s back to holding, the older male takes his time thinking of a real answer to the question. 

“Probably a slot car track,” he settles on. “I went through a phase where I wanted to be a Hot Wheels driver.” 

Liam’s about to move the chair he’s been using as a stepping stool, over to the far end of the wall when he hears the sincerity in Zayn’s voice and stops. “You wanted to drive a toy matchbox?” 

“I thought I had a good shot since none of them ever came with drivers inside.” 

The way Liam’s staring at him with an overwhelming amount of endearment, Zayn never would’ve thought he’d just been sent daggers by the same person less than a minute ago. 

“That’s the cutest thing I think I’ve ever heard,” Liam admits, voice just as soft as his features. 

Out of embarrassment, and the inability to keep Liam’s gaze while he’s looking at Zayn like he’s the same five year old he’s just described, the older man bows his head. “I imagine you were a pretty cute kid,” he says in an attempt to switch the focus away from himself. 

“Even cuter than I am now?” 

Zayn needs to bite his lip in order to refrain from saying how he really feels once Liam follows his words up with a childish readjustment to his Santa hat and nudge up of his glasses. 

“It’s hard to say yes when I’m envisioning you falling asleep under the tree, waiting for Santa in tiny Batman pajamas,” Zayn replies when he’s gotten over the small wave of fondness. 

“I’ve got adult size ones.” 

Nope, the tide’s still very much at an all time high. 

“In that case, I’d say you’re equally as cute.” Zayn’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips in the blink of an eye. “Don’t wanna play favourites between mini Liam and big Liam.” 

“Smart answer,” the named man smirks before going back to the job at hand. 

Stepping forward, Zayn watches Liam’s footing carefully, while also admiring his passion towards the tradition he refuses to let end. 

“You strike me as the type who can’t wait to have kids,” Zayn thinks out loud. 

“That’s because I am.” 

When Liam reaches down for a string end, Zayn jumps into action and forks it over, one hand behind the man’s back just for safety. 

“I’m not sure how many I want,” Liam continues while he ties the string around the head of the tac, “but the holidays bring it out in me. Is that how you noticed?” 

“No.” Feverishly, Zayn shakes his head. “I mean, yes, it’s telling from that too.” His hand stays ghosting Liam’s back the entire time he moves the chair again, and climbs up to finish hanging the draping letters. “I can’t even imagine what you’re going to be like with a small army to delegate all of this to.” 

“They’ll all have matching elf uniforms.” Liam peers down at Zayn with a wry smile. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I’m not going to be that awful.” 

“I don’t know,” Zayn crosses his arms when his precautionary hand isn’t needed anymore and Liam’s stepping down to double check he’s matched the height right on both sides. “I can see you being like Harry at their football games.” 

“I’m flattered you think I can bake that well.” 

“I meant sitting front row,” Zayn clarifies. “Although, you’d never be caught dead wearing the flare cut trousers he was wearing today.” 

“No?” The word comes out in a laugh. “Then tell me what I’m gonna have on.” 

Being given the excuse to stare Liam’s figure down fairs well for Zayn. He allows his eyes to go ahead and partake in as greedy of a once over as they can muster; he’s not going to get called out for it, so why not allow them to do their worst. 

“You’ll have on jeans,” he starts, letting his gaze linger on the way Liam’s current choice of sweatpant adds to his allure of comfort. And possibly a chance for Zayn’s imagination to run wild on what’s underneath them. “They’ll need a wash,” he notes as Liam makes his way back to the couch full of boxes. “And you’re going to have on mismatched socks for sure.” 

“Uh huh,” Liam pacifies. 

“Orthopedic trainers.” 

The younger male turns around to narrow his eyes at the addition. “Now you’re just taking the piss.” 

“That one I was,” Zayn laughs, “you’re right.” Shaking his head, he continues on with his assessment. “Nah, you’ll have on some alright trainers. Worn out a bit, but presentable.” Liam holds Zayn’s gaze for another second before going back to his boxes. From behind, Zayn starts to put his creativity to work, but realizes that it isn’t needed. “Actually, you’d probably have on that hoodie.” 

“This exact one?” Liam asks, looking down at what he’s wearing after pulling out what’s at the bottom of his box: a snowman doormat and two felt snowflakes with large holes in their middle. 

“Yeah, rep your old school and all that. Vintage like.” 

Quickly, Liam goes to open the front door and drops the doormat outside. “I dread to think how old I am in this flash forward.” 

“Not bad,” Zayn promises. “Mid-forties.” He watches the other place the snowflakes around the handle of the front door and hall closet. “Only a few gray hairs, but you’ll be wearing a baseball cap, don’t worry. West Bromwich or sommat.” 

Liam’s lips hitch up into a smile walking back into the sitting room and dragging the chair back under the archway. “You’ve got me all figured out then, huh?” 

“On the surface,” Zayn replies in a coy tone. “I’m enjoying taking my time learning about your interior. Can’t do that in a day.” 

Rather than anxiousness, there’s a hint of excitement running through Zayn’s system at what Liam’s flirtatious comeback might be. He didn’t even give himself any time to think through the response, surprised that he was able to speak with as much confidence as he had. Staying on this trajectory is what he needed to do if he was to ever push things further and see where things could go outside of the research lab. Easier said than done, especially when Liam biting his bottom lip turns out to be the man’s repartee. 

“And what about you?” Liam throws back, eyes appearing darker in challenge. “What are you getting up to on the sidelines?” 

“Who said my kid would be on the pitch?” 

The defensiveness in Zayn’s voice isn’t exactly staying on the trajectory, but he lets it slip without thinking. His son or daughter could do as they pleased. If that meant playing football, then Zayn would be at every match, but if they wanted nothing to do with sports of any kind, he’d be more than accepting of that as well. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.” Liam’s look of forlorn kicks Zayn in the gut, but it goes away almost as soon as it comes when the researcher’s perking up. “What museum will they be hanging their first finger painting in?” 

A slow smile spreads over Zayn’s face at the personalized substitution. “The Louvre,” he states proudly. “And I’ll be wearing-” 

“Ah, ah, ah.” A hand comes up to stop Zayn right where he is. “You’ll be wearing grey linen trousers with a nice pair of leather brogues. Black,” Liam stresses, his eyes combing down Zayn’s chest. “A white dress shirt and a black coat, but not a plain blazer. A cool one.” He squints, as if he’s envisioning the outfit on the man in front of him at that very moment. “Maybe it’d have a long back or cool collar or buttons. I’m not sure, just something to make it edgy.” 

Zayn’s about to open his mouth to give his two cents, but Liam’s energetic voice stops him from doing so. 

“And you’d have red rimmed glasses.” He points to his own, “Like the ones you always wear, but red, so there’s a little bit of colour to the outfit.” 

Going to pull out the tinsel that’s hanging out of a box buys Zayn some time to hide the fondness he can feel himself exude. He’s slow unraveling the green and red material, wondering if Liam can sense how taken he is by the amount of detail listed off. 

“It’s like you were just waiting for the perfect opportunity to get that out,” Zayn murmurs. “Now I know how transparent I am.” 

“Or who you are, just speaks easy to me.” 

Liam reaches down to take the long strand from Zayn’s grasp, the latter’s hand instinctively shadowing Liam’s back when he does. If anything did happen, he hopes his reaction would be just as instant, because at the moment, he’s preoccupied trying to figure out how many times in his life he’s felt this swooping feeling in his stomach. Like he’s back in secondary school and has just been handed back an essay, perfect marks staring back at him even though he’d sworn he’d done worse. Except now, he’s not receiving a grade based on hard work, but rather proof that staying a studious introvert, doesn’t always mean needing to work at showing people your worth outside of the classroom. Zayn’s a lot more than his looks, than his brain, but he’s learned throughout the years that not everyone is willing to wait out the time it takes for them to get to those layers. It’s a shame. 

“Can you hand me that tape that’s in the box too?” 

Broken out of his thoughts, Zayn retreats back to the sofa and grabs the roll, noticing that the last of the decorations aren’t entirely that; they’re various mugs and plates ready for heavy December use. 

“I almost forgot,” Liam says as he’s about to lean down and take the piece of tape Zayn’s just ripped off for him. “You’re gonna have tons of gray hair.” 

Immediately, Zayn snatches his hand back so that it’s out of Liam’s reach. “Come again?” 

“Let me finish,” the younger male insists, eyes narrowed yet again from being denied the single item needed to finish his task. “You’re gonna have tons of gray hair,” he continues with a voice full of zeal. “But there’s not a doubt in my mind that you’re going to be one of those middle aged men that suits it. What are those called?” Tilting his head to the side in thought, Liam looks off distantly, as if that will help him concentrate on remembering the term he wants to use. “There’s a name for it…” 

_A silver fox_ , Zayn thinks. _And I’m trying to figure out if I’m mildly insulted, or flattered you would use such a title on me— **future** me._

“A silver fox!” Liam points at the man below him. “You’d be a silver fox.” 

Begrudgingly, Zayn hands over the strip of tape stuck to his thumb. “Me in my classy Parisian get up and you…” 

“Looking like I just came in from mowing the lawn.” 

There’s no helping the smile that forms at Liam’s comparison, Zayn loves it too much to hide. “You said it, not me.” 

The tinsel placed at the top of the entryway gets secured in silence. 

“Would you come over after the game and watch superhero films with me?” Liam’s left hand reaches down for another piece of tape while his right holds the decoration where he wants it to drape over the right of the door frame. “Vintage hoodie and everything?” 

“What happened to the kids?” Zayn asks, ripping off more than one strip as a provision. 

“They went to their friends’ house.” 

“As long as my other kid doesn’t have violin lessons-” Zayn pauses to let himself chuckle at the eye roll his dramatization has inspired, returning to his made up life when Liam’s climbing off the chair. “I think the odds would most likely be in your favour. They might drop if you let it slip that you’re controlling though.” 

“I’m not controlling,” Liam snaps, walking away from where he was admiring his work. 

“How long until the curry of the West gets here?” 

For a second time, the student rolls his eyes. “Your _free_ curry of the West?” 

“I told you I’d pay…” Zayn recalls, putting the chair back when Liam leaves it in the middle of the room’s entrance. 

“And I told you I don’t mind.” 

“Well thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Turning around, Zayn’s faced with a smirking Liam, the last box in his hands, ready to take into the kitchen. 

“What?” He prompts, eyebrows bunched together in curiosity at what could possibly be going through the man’s mind. 

“It’s good to hear that even twenty years from now, with my mediocre sense of style, I’ll still have it.” 

There’s a cocky swing to Liam’s hips as he leaves to the kitchen. Zayn could hate him for it - and for making fun of Zayn’s budding weakness towards him - but he can’t. He’s stuck to pursing his lips and kneeling below the flatscreen to figure out which film’s on deck. 

NET 

Today marks exactly two weeks until Christmas. Two weeks until Zayn would be expected to hand over a wagon full of gifts to his family. And as of that night, he had all of zero names checked off the list. He either needed to start looking now, or run the risk of being labeled ‘lazy’ like his uncle Nasir showing up with a bunch of envelopes to distribute. In his defense, if it did come down to that, he’d at least decorate the recipients names on the front in fancy calligraphy; Nasir would be better off just handing out the gift cards in their packaging rather than pass out nameless envelopes. 

Zayn would like to blame Liam for kick starting his holiday spirit three days prior, but the city of Oxford should’ve been the one to do that nearly a month ago. Large chandeliers were hung above the middle of the city’s main pedestrian walkways in mid-November, kept in place by strings of white lights tied to buildings on each side of the streets. Tree farms popped up on the outer parts of town at the same time - a sign that Christmas was right around the corner, one that Zayn should’ve taken, but didn’t. 

And while Zayn’s Mother loved him just as much as Liam’s mother seemed to Liam, there were no miniature decorations sent to him to put up around his own flat. The neighbor below him had lights up around their windows; Zayn felt just fine counting them as his own. 

Occasionally he’d be walking around town and see an ugly Christmas sweater or two, but not even seasonal attire had made things click and force him to sit down and write a list on what to get his awaiting family. Only Liam and his personal holiday tradition had managed to do that. Sort of. He’s very much walking around Oxford town centre with the intention to buy his loved ones gifts, it’s just that he’s without a clue as to what it is he’s going to get any of them. But to Zayn, that’s at least a start. 

However, the evening he picked to sort his life out isn’t the warmest. He’s having to remember which makeup brands his sisters talk about in a cold that’s only a degree away from causing his teeth to start chattering against each other. 

If Zayn’s memory is correct, there’s an opening up ahead that leads to a long corridor of indoor shops. He’s not entirely sure if he recalls any selling makeup, but he can’t be bothered to take his hands out of his pocket to consult the internet on the matter. Maybe as a gift to himself, he’ll buy a pair of technologically apt gloves, so that won’t be a problem in the future. 

_Or maybe, I don’t have to wait at all._

The mannequin in the window to Zayn’s right is dressed head to toe in snow gear. When he looks up at the name of the shop, he sees why: **Summit Sports**. There’s no way of telling if the gloves have accessible fingertips from simply staring at them, so Zayn pulls at the front door, but his arm’s met with resistance. 

**Open: 9AM-6PM M-F 10AM-7PM S/Sun**

_Then don’t leave your lights on if you’re closed._

Agitated at being tricked by the fully lit storefront, Zayn shoves his right hand back into the warmth his brown sheepskin shearling jacket provides and returns on his way. He could take out his smokes and light up to warm his body, but one particular image of a scarred heart that Liam had taken notes on comes to mind (as it has nearly every time Zayn’s pulled out a cigarette since being presented the photo) and keeps him from doing so. 

It’s right when the entrance to the shopping corridor comes into view that Zayn sees two familiar faces. 

“Is this place on your list of recommendations?” 

Liam’s head jerks up from where he’s cleaning his glasses, bringing the frames up to his eyes quickly to see the person whose voice he recognizes and is responsible for giving him the widest smile. 

“Hey.” He looks up at the chain bento restaurant that he and Niall have just walked out of, one that Zayn’s surely been to when he lived in London. “No.” The bitter winter air causes Liam’s chuckles to be visible in front of his face. “No, we just felt like sushi. Cheap sushi.” 

Zayn nods to Niall in greeting, the other doing the same in return. “You alright mate?” 

“Good, yeah,” the Irishman replies, rubbing his hands together to create friction. “Bit cold though. Lookin’ forward to gettin’ into the pub pretty soon. What’re you up to?” 

“Hopefully getting all my Christmas shopping done.” 

Liam raises his eyebrows in surprise, “You haven’t started?” 

“Not everyone’s as on top of things as you are,” Niall berates. “Look, I gotta get going, otherwise I’m gonna be late. Liam, I close, so I probably won’t see you until tomorrow. Zayn,” he nods once again, “Sunday for you?” 

“Most likely, yeah,” the teacher replies while playing with his keys inside his pocket. 

Right before Niall turns on his heels, Liam sends him a small wave goodbye. “See ya in the morning.” 

“Do I even want to ask how many people you have left on your list?” Zayn asks once it’s only the two of them. 

“Just one.” Liam shoves the cleaning cloth that’s still in his hand, down into his jeans pocket. “My Mum.” 

The foreign concept has Zayn shaking his head, “And that’s why I didn’t outrightly ask you.” 

“Sorry.” Sheepish at his mistake, Liam looks down at where Zayn’s fingers are still fidgeting in their warmth. “Where are you gonna go?” 

“Anywhere that’s got an inside.” 

Zayn’s eyes flicker over to the small indoor shopping centre’s doors, and then back to a tightly bundled Liam. The scarf that’s wrapped around his neck, above his red checkered button up, may add to Zayn’s fresh jealousy of him, but it’s not enough to ward away the ever present want to keep Liam around longer. 

“Are you busy?” Zayn asks. “You’re welcome to come with me if you’re not. Maybe find something for your Mum.” 

Liam’s all but missing a tail to wag enthusiastically. “Yeah? You’re sure?” 

“I’m sure, but you’ve gotta make up your mind quickly, otherwise I’m leaving you out in the cold.” 

“I’m in!” 

Zayn takes the first step towards refuge with an upbeat Liam right at his side. “You have a good day?” 

“It was productive,” the male replies. “Checked on the samples and then read a lot of medical journals that I’ve been meaning to get to. What about you? Still busy grading?” 

Luckily, the amount of work left for term isn’t enough to overwhelm Zayn with existential dread as soon as Liam’s bringing it up. “I’ll be finished with both classes tomorrow, thank god.” 

“And then it’s home free?” 

Zayn laughs while going to catch the door to the centre for a mother pushing her pram, waiting for Liam to enter as well before he follows suit. “I wish,” he responds, nearly sighing in relief at the pocket of heat they’ve just walked into. “I’ve got a few staff meetings and visits with other departments for my own research.” 

“Still holding a grudge towards the music department?” Liam teases, unraveling his scarf in the process. 

“It’s like you’re asking for me to go on another rant.” 

“I’m not, I want your blood pressure to stay steady.” 

Glancing to his left, Zayn catches the way Liam winks at him, how it comes off more as a purposeful blink due to his inability to close one eye at a time. It’s adorable. For a grown man to lack such a simple skill, and yet still utilize it like he’s mastered it? In Zayn’s eyes, that’s the dictionary definition of the word come to life. 

“Now that you’re warm,” Liam continues when Zayn’s stuck in his place, “do you have _any_ idea as to where you want to start?” 

There isn't an overwhelming amount of stores, not like the full size shopping centre on the other side of town that Zayn’s trying to avoid visiting at all costs before January. Still, his memory’s only done him well in remembering that this place existed, not the specifics of its brands within. 

“Who do you have? Let’s start there.” Liam’s tone is tender, unaware that Zayn would be as clueless as he’s turning out to be concerning something as straightforward as gift giving. 

“The entire Malik clan up North,” Zayn jokes in an attempt to lighten the enormity of the task. The widening of Liam’s eyes, tells the man that he’s missed the mark completely. “I know I have to get my sisters makeup,” he adds quickly to eliminate some of Liam’s worries. “That takes care of three people.” 

The crinkles in Liam’s forehead dissipate, but only briefly. “Do you know how many types of makeup there are?” 

“I invited you for support,” Zayn sneers. “Not to add to my stress.” 

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Following his feverish apology, Liam tugs at the other’s arm lightly. “There’s one of those specialty makeup stores here.” 

“Specialty?” 

Once more, nights spent visiting his childhood home as an adult flood Zayn’s mind. He’s grasping at the memories, trying to remember if the conversations he sat through with his sisters involved any context as to what specialty makeup is. Nothing stands out, only the debates on whether or not organic removal wipes do a better job than normal. He’s not entirely sure why that point stuck with him through the years. Perhaps because of the way a full on demonstration took place in front of him while he sipped his tea and stayed quiet, pleased to just be in the presence of his sisters at all; what they got up to didn’t matter. 

But then, it dawns on Zayn. 

“Wait, how do you know about specialty makeup?” 

Liam’s shoulders fall up and down in a casual shrug, “I don’t. But the place’s got a modern look to it - all slate grey and minimalistic tables inside and sophisticated uniforms. That must mean it’s specialty, right?” Zayn supposes he’s got a point. “I mean, the brands at Boots or Superdrug aren’t like that, you know?” 

It’s been a while since Zayn’s been dragged down those aisles of a drug store by either his family members or an ex, so he can’t exactly make out their layout or presentation, but as a man whose life revolves around colours and their presentation, he imagines that he’d remember such an elegant setup. 

“Yeah, that’s true.” 

And immediately, when they round the corner, Zayn agrees even more. 

The shop’s as sleek as Liam described, a matte purple theme throughout the inner walls and tables that match the store’s indigo logo. The lighting’s ironically dim inside, which irritates Zayn to no end, much like it does anytime he enters a museum and is subjected to the same thing. At least the small store’s segregated by product type, that much Zayn _can_ appreciate and understand. 

He gravitates towards the products lining the wall closest to them - a sea of coloured tubes. The display consists of several rows, yet Zayn’s trained eye can barely make out the different shades; they look like practically the same pigments of the same colours. 

“Are these all lipsticks?” 

Liam’s breath is warm against Zayn’s ear, the whisper doing its job of keeping the words between the two, all the while testing Zayn’s self-restraint. 

“I don’t know. Don’t lipsticks come in black tubes? These are all clear.” 

“Maybe they’re lipgloss.” Liam reaches out to pull a bright shade of red out of the pack. “Oh,” he sighs, reading the label. “It’s a liquid lip. What’s a liquid lip?” 

Zayn grabs a purple tube to examine it himself. “Why are you asking me? I study art for a living and I can’t make out the fucking shades, much less their purpose.” 

“Do you think they’re watery?” 

“I don’t know, they kinda look it.” Zayn tears his eyes away from the air bubble that’s traveling through the tube when he shakes it lightly, and directs them to where Liam’s uncapping his. “What are you doing?” He scolds in a heated whisper. 

“I wanna see how watery it is.” Without a care for what the outcome might be, Liam swipes the applicator over the top of his left hand. 

Zayn stares at the red streak. “So?” 

“It’s not running.” To prove his point, the younger male tilts his hand back and forth, but instead of the product dripping with gravity, it simply shimmers in the blaring light of a directed fixture. “It feels a little sticky though.” He pushes the tip of the applicator back down on his mark and pulls it up agonizingly slow, a tiny string of product coming along with it. “I would much rather kiss a girl wearing lipstick than this.” 

“Maybe it dries,” Zayn reasons, now wanting to wait and see if his guess comes true. 

“I wonder if you can use it as nail polish...” 

Right as Liam’s putting his hypothesis to the test and running the end of the stick over his pointer finger nail, a high-pitched voice causes him to panic and scramble to screw the cap back on his tester tube. Zayn shoves his own sample back on the shelf in just as frenzied of a manner. 

“Can I help you two?” 

A woman, dressed in an all grey pant suit, is staring between the males with a wide smile that doesn’t look too suspicious. 

The left side of Zayn’s body jolts forward when Liam nudges him. When Zayn looks to him, he sees that it’s clear Liam’s done playing games. ‘ _I got us here, it’s all you now_ ’, is what Zayn reads from his bewildered expression. 

_Throwing me into the lion’s den alone then, huh?_ Zayn’s narrowed eyes say in reply. 

“Are you here for your girlfriends?” The woman coaxes gently, although she looks quite amused at the two floundering men in front of her. “Or...yourselves?” 

“No,” Zayn replies quickly, backtracking on his answer when he hears how it might’ve come off. “I mean, you know, I’m cool with that - guys who want to wear makeup. I just, that’s not-” 

A small, uncomfortable clearing of the throat comes from Zayn’s left, followed by Liam walking away to go busy himself with something else. Zayn’s about to grab him by the belt loop and tell him ‘ _oh no, you’re not getting away that easily_ ’, but his initial impression was incorrect; the man had only sidestepped to grab him a small black bag to hold whatever it was he planned on buying. 

“My sisters,” Zayn informs the worker. “I need to buy something for my sisters.” 

Relief sinks into all three bodies at the clarification finally being made. 

“Oh!” The woman smiles widely, blinking a few too many times for Zayn’s liking. It does give him a chance to appreciate her long eyelashes though; they were nice. Most definitely fake, but nice. “Well, do you know what they like?” 

“No, but um,” Zayn scratches at the underside of his beard, “what’s your specialty?” 

Confused, yet trying not to show it by keeping up her innocent pout, the woman’s eyes flicker over Zayn’s face. “What do you mean?” 

“This is a specialty makeup shop, right?” Zayn looks around at the products on the edges of the store, just to double check that they were in fact in a makeup shop at all. 

The black bag’s taken from Zayn’s grip with a short giggle that makes the man want to strangle Liam for the possibility of feeding him false information. 

“Oh babe,” she grins sympathetically, “I’ll make this as painless as possible. Do they wear a lot of colours, or does their makeup typically blend in with their natural look?” 

“Um, both?” 

Soft fingers curl their way around Zayn’s upper arm. “Let me take care of things, ok?” 

The combination of suggestive words and intimate touch doesn’t go unnoticed by Zayn, he understands the message behind the batting of the eyelashes now too. They’re the reason he sticks even closer to Liam the rest of the visit, making sure that they were almost always touching in some way or another - through knocking shoulders, pressed up arms, small brushing of their hands against one another when looking over a product that had been suggested. At one point, Zayn even considered slipping his arm through the hole made by Liam’s hand being scrunched in his pocket. But maybe his reluctance to go through with the latter is the reason why he still wound up with the woman’s number on the back of his receipt. 

“I can’t ever show my face in there again,” Zayn groans as they finally escape the confines of the shop. 

“It wasn’t that bad.” 

Holding back the scoff that wants so badly to be heard, Zayn peers over at Liam’s outstretched hand, the red line of liquid lip (short for liquid lipstick Zayn eventually found out) still evident, as is the portion covering half a nail on the same hand. 

“You hardly said two words after she nearly caught you about ready to finish that set,” Zayn argues pointedly. 

“ _Vanessa_ was nice.” Experimentally, Liam rubs his right thumb over the painted nail to see if it would come off, but it doesn’t budge. 

“Vanessa was about ready to pull me in the storage room.” 

“What’s wrong with that?” Liam gives up on trying to get rid of the makeup and turns his head to the side instead. “She was fit.” 

“She’s not my type,” Zayn dismisses, taking a look at the stores in front of them to see if any will do for anyone else on his list. 

“Oh, so you’re the type that has a type?” 

“Sort of,” Zayn replies distantly, wondering if it was worth a shot to go into the tech store ahead, overrun by random gadgets and a hit or miss on whether any of them would be worth it. He figures he’s got nothing to lose, so he steers them inside. 

“Can I hear why she didn’t fit yours?” 

Zayn sends this store’s greeter a smile, grateful that they don’t seem at all keen on him. “For starters, she worked at a place that only sells makeup.” A line of charging accessories catches Zayn’s eye. “I don’t have a problem with that per se, but hers was about five centimeters too thick, and I could never date someone that obsessed with their looks. I’ve got a rule: if you look at someone’s Instagram, and you have to scroll for a photo that doesn’t include them in it, they’re out. You’ve gotta be interested in something. I don’t care if it’s something I like, just something.” 

As he picks up a charging mat that might be suitable for his cousin, he notices Liam staring at his phone. “What’ve you got?” 

“The third one’s of me and the boys dressed up for Halloween. The middle one’s of my research flyer for volunteers. And the most recent is a picture of the canal at sunrise that I thought was nice when I went running last week.” The phone gets tilted in Zayn’s direction so he can see first hand that Liam’s not lying. “I don’t really post all that much.” 

“More than I do,” Zayn comments as he quickly looks over the Batman costume that Liam’s showing off proudly alongside a pirate Harry, some sort of gang boss Louis, and zookeeper Niall. “I couldn’t tell you the last time I posted something.” 

“Can I look?” 

“No, we’re on a mission.” Despite not having anything to hide, Zayn really did want to get this shopping over and done with. “My Aunt and Uncle just got new phones. Do you think if I get one of these wireless charging mats, it can count for the both of them?” 

With his phone put away, Liam gives the choice his attention. “Yeah, I don’t see why not.” 

That’s all Zayn needs to hear to throw one under his arm. And another, just because it’s easy, and his cousin won’t disapprove. “Does your Mum have a new iPhone? You should get one for her. They’re on sale.” 

Liam pulls the boxes out from under Zayn’s hold to help him. “She does, but I want to get her something else.” 

“Like what?” Zayn asks after nodding his head in thanks, about ready to say that chivalrous is a trait a person of his ‘type’ would have, but holding his tongue to keep from sounding too eager. 

“I’m not sure. When I buy something for someone, I want it to be thoughtful. I think the best gifts are the ones that someone doesn’t realize they wanted, or that they would never buy for themselves but would still like to have.” 

Such a heartfelt answer steals Zayn’s focus away from the metal cardholder that he was toying around with. He doesn’t look behind him where he can feel Liam hovering, trying to see what it is that Zayn’s deemed worthy as another possible gift. He can’t. Not when he knows what he’ll be met with: two honey brown eyes, utterly clueless as to the remorse their beholder’s just instilled in Zayn. How they made him feel idiotic for even bothering to pick up the metal case in the first place. And their lure. There’s no way Liam’s aware of just how captivating staring into his easily excitable eyes could be. 

Setting down the cardholder, Zayn keeps close to the younger male as they weave their way in and out of the other shoppers. Each time he sees something that he’d normally think of looking at for someone else, he second guesses himself. Was it thoughtful or was he merely picking it out because it was an item that he was certain his Dad wouldn’t toss in the bin? 

“Hey,” Zayn pulls off a pair of black touchscreen gloves from a metal display rod. “I was just thinking about buying some of these before I ran into you.” He fits his right hand inside and tests it out on his mobile. “It was too cold for me to want to take out my phone for directions. Now I don’t have to go back to that bloody ski shop that closes at sunset.” 

“It’s a good thing I didn’t buy you those gloves I saw online last week.” 

It’s physically impossible for Zayn to hold back from looking at Liam this time around. 

“What?” He utters dumbly. 

“Yeah, I was ordering my Dad these compression socks for Christmas since it’ll make traveling more comfortable for him now that he and my Mum are going on more trips being that they’re retired,” Liam replies. “They were advertising these nice wool gloves and I almost bought you a pair as your gift. You’ve always got your hands in your pockets, especially when you’re sitting with Harry at our games. I thought you could use a pair.” 

There, right in front of him, stood the man with the world’s largest heart. Zayn was sure of it. If there was some sort of higher power, maybe Liam’s fate was planned out from the start. Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence that a person so altruistic would also end up being the one to devote their life to saving troubled hearts. If that were the case, then surely it would’ve been written in his destiny to meet dull, uninteresting Zayn Malik. A caring human being, but one whose own independent research or field of study wasn’t going to influence the future beyond altering critics’ points of view; he’d be lucky if he made any impression at all on one of his students. ‘ _Your job’s important. You’re shaping the minds of tomorrow!’_ His mother would say, but art history didn’t have the same effects as maths or psychology or politics. Teaching about conservation is exactly that - teaching about how to identify trends that are often only appreciated by the high class individuals wealthy enough to be able to keep the art alive. There are exceptions to the rule - Zayn being one of them - but art undergoes a vicious cycle that hardly ever registers to the general public as more than a hobby. How someone so passionate about living life with purpose, could cross paths with someone who couldn’t even recognize his own needs, is beyond Zayn. All he can say is that he’s lucky for it. Except for the pressure he’s now feeling, knowing that Liam planned on getting him a gift for the holiday; he’s got no choice but to match his level of thoughtfulness. That, Zayn’s not so thrilled about. 

Regardless of having to add a name to his shopping list, and the amount of time it’s going to take brainstorming ideas in order to strike ‘Liam’ off it, Zayn would do it. Because the dopey smile staring back at him deserved to be there from another person taking notice of who _he_ is, and not always having it be the other way around. 

“You don’t have to get me anything,” Zayn says softly, voice barely rising above the noise of the store - a mix of underlying music and other side conversations. 

Taking the gloves from the male’s hands to add to his pile of helpful holdings, Liam scowls. “If I want to get you something, let me get you something.” 

Normally Zayn would roll his eyes at such a comment, not wanting to be doted on like that, but he’s still too caught up on hearing how close he is to Liam that a Christmas gift is warranted, to sourly acknowledge the man’s insistence. 

As the two shuffle around the rest of the store, Zayn listens to Liam talk about his thoughts on drones and how he’s unsure if he’ll ever be on board with his takeaway being delivered via one. Apparently, he’s quite certain that “it’s impossible to be able to drive one of those things through the snow. What’s going to happen when it hails and takes out one of the propellers? Then what Zayn?”. Zayn’s never put too much of his own energy into thinking the whole thing through, and he doesn’t as they check out the numerous machines on display either. He’s too busy trying to inconspicuously gather information on Liam that he can use for gift inspiration. If it was as easy for Liam as watching Zayn’s mannerisms to figure out a present for him, then it had to work the other way around. 

But Liam isn’t all that telling. He needs to touch almost everything he comes across, get a feel for it before he starts to ramble. At one point he asks if Zayn wants him to hold the large makeup store bag in addition to the boxes he’s already holding for him until they get to the register, but Zayn refuses to let him, and doesn’t see anything gift worthy in the younger male having manners. There’s a moment where Zayn almost allows himself to get excited when Liam picks up a fitness something or other, but then the price tag sends his heart rate into the triple digits and he finds himself back at square one. 

It’s ok, something will come to his mind. No need to panic just yet. Christmas is still two weeks away after all. 

NEVELE 

It doesn’t occur to Zayn that it’s Friday the thirteenth until he checks his calendar when he gets to his office. He’s not a superstitious person, yet he can’t come up with an explanation as to why there’s an odd sensation in the air that occupies the minimalistic room other than the date. There’s absolutely no reason why the feeling can’t be a manifestation of his stress. It’s just like Zayn to let the weight of his responsibilities crush him. 

He doesn’t ignore them, just puts in place more than is necessary for someone in his position. And age. _‘You work too much Zayn. Try and go out and have fun. You’ll get worry lines and you’re far too handsome to get those as young as you are._ ’ At this point, it’s a mantra that his mother’s always reinstilling, never ceasing to amaze Zayn at how many times she can fit it in during a single call. Without fail, he always reaches his hand up to feel for wrinkles too. And each time, he curses himself for doing so. 

During his time studying Dali and Mexican artists, or maybe it was the Portugeuese, he can never remember which, Zayn came across the saying ‘you can sleep when you’re dead’. In its original form, he thinks it’s meant to reinforce living life to its fullest. Still, that hasn’t stopped him from using it as an excuse to stick his nose in another swatch of colour or sweet talk a museum docent into letting him stay just a few minutes past closing. Nowadays, it’s justification for Zayn taking on a full time passion project alongside keeping up a full time job. He better rest in peace like a log after all’s said and done with this research. 

Today, his calendar delineates it as a ‘transcribe/clean up notes’ day. Which, in Zayn’s book, is a tedious, walk in the park sort of day. When he looks down at the meetings he has with the flood experts next week, he sighs. It takes throwing back half of his coffee in one go to be able to convince himself that he loves his job, but eventually, he gets there. 

A second cup’s needed when the day’s bad luck finally strikes and Zayn dares to open an email from his superior asking that if he’s available, could he spare a quick hour to discuss how he found grading his first term. There isn’t anything ‘quick’ about an hour, but Zayn’s far too nice to actually voice that opinion to the professor wishing to speak, so he sticks to a curt, ‘of course. I’ll be over after lunch’. In the end, he’s right, only really following along with the dry evaluation so he can live to see another. 

At least one thing other than vexation did come out of the meeting - the confirmation that Zayn needed to get the fuck out of there. His office, the building, anywhere he knew. If he stood a chance of surviving the day migraine free, he needed to find a fresh workspace for the remainder of the afternoon to base himself from. Somewhere he hasn’t been before. 

“Zayn, hey!” 

The cheerful tenor coming through the line melts away a thin layer of Zayn’s stress. 

“I’m in need of a recommendation.” 

“Tour guide Payne at your service.” 

Several creaks come from the weathered office chair Zayn leans back in. “I need a good place to work from. Like a cool cafe or something. I’ve gone down your list of coffee shops already. I need new scenery.” 

“Hmmm. Have you been to Harry’s bakery?” 

“No,” Zayn replies, disappointed in himself for not having been the one to come up with his new friend’s place of work as a potential destination, but even more so for not having visited at all yet. 

“You should. What’s today? Friday? Pretty sure he’s in today. You know where it is, yeah?” 

“Across from the Ashmolean Museum.” 

“The what?” 

Zayn shakes his head fondly, already getting up and heading for the rack where his tweed coat’s hanging. “I know where it is. Thanks for the expertise.” 

“Just make sure to leave me a good review. Tips are always welcome too. I accept bank transfer.” 

“Fucking hell.” Zayn’s chuckles are muted when he places his phone between his ear and shoulder while he slides his arm through the jacket. “Do you accept overpriced pastries?” 

There’s more than a good chance that working next to Liam wouldn’t be in Zayn’s best interest. Each and every time he’d catch the man pushing up his glasses, without question he’d lose his train of thought. Prove his mother right by ruining his wrinkle free brow from the amount of time he’d take gaining his concentration back. Surely Liam would keep to himself once he saw Zayn was serious about legitimately finishing out his workday, but would he be the type to rustle around a lot? Be distracting without meaning to be, completely unaware of how he tapped his pen or opened up useless tabs that would be too enticing for Zayn to keep his eyes on his own screen? Just because the offer came to him with trepidation, didn’t mean that Zayn should’ve voiced it out loud. Even when flirting with Liam was easy, it was hard. 

“I do if they’re Harry’s. Are you heading over now? I’m only a five minute walk from it.” 

“Yeah, I’m leaving my office. I’ll see you soon.” 

“See ya.” 

\---- 

A high pitched bell rings the moment Zayn pushes his way into the bakery front door. The smell of sugar and freshly baked streusel hits Zayn’s nose before he can even think to take off his coat that’s now covered in a sea of small droplets. It’s only just started drizzling, but when he looks behind him to make sure to hold the door open for any other customers, the darkened skies above say that showers are iminent. 

Behind the glass display that takes over almost the entire right wall of the bakery, sits a myriad of baked goods; Zayn couldn’t count them all even if he tried. Though his glasses are slightly wet from the last few minutes of his walk, he can tell that the sweets are categorized. Nearest to the front window are rows and rows of cookies whose flavours are identifiable by the tags at the head of the columns. Next to them are macarons, various pastel colours giving away what their pâte à choux filled insides might taste like. Danish pastries and different types of croissants come after, then cupcakes galore, and finally whole cakes with premade slices cut; although, not many are left. And based on what Zayn’s tasted from their creator, he knows why. 

“Look who decided to finally come pay me a visit.” 

Tearing his gaze away from the eclairs took a great deal of self-will, but the academic forces it to happen. 

Harry’s dressed in a white, long sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a teal apron that hides his jeans so well, that it almost looks like he’s not wearing any. To Zayn’s surprise, barely any stains can be found on the clothing whatsoever. How that’s possible, especially with the tray of fresh brownies in the male’s hands, is lost on him. 

“Sorry it took me so long,” Zayn replies, shrugging out of his coat. “Just because the term’s over, doesn’t mean I haven’t gotten any less busy.” 

“That’s alright, you’re here now.” The sheet of dessert is angled away from Harry’s chest. “Brownie?” 

If he gave in to his impulse, Zayn would be saying yes in a second. Chocolate’s high on his list of weaknesses, specifically warm, dense, chewy chocolate. On a rainy afternoon, how could he say no? But he’s been trying to follow a healthier lifestyle as of recently, and last time he checked, decadent cocoa treats weren’t considered a solid contribution to his five-a-day. 

“There are chocolate chips baked into this batch.” 

Then again, who was he to start a lifestyle change before January first? 

“Sure, I’ll take one.” As Harry turns to set the tray around, Zayn stares up at the chalkboard menu hanging on the wall. “Your coffee any good?” He’s yet to find the beverages section on the ledger, but when he hears the other say, “I’d recommend the darjeeling tea”, he stops looking. 

“Just come in for a pick me up?” Harry asks while he pulls the jar of tea leaves down from the shelf lined with the rest of the shop’s collection. 

“And a place to work,” Zayn replies, eyes shifting over to where the seating area of the bakery lives. To his dismay, the handful of circular tables that are set up, don’t afford much space. Based on the couple in the corner, room for two dining in is about all the tabletops can handle. It’s not at all the spacious surface area Zayn had been expecting. 

He’s about to ask Harry if it’d be alright for him to push two of the tables together when the bell above the door sounds once more. 

“I got to the corner and it just started pouring,” Liam informs the shop as he stomps his feet on the bristled front mat. And when he moves on to twisting his shoulders and arms, Zayn swears there’s no difference between the man in front of him and a wet dog shaking himself dry. 

Shivering the last of the rain off his navy blue raincoat, Liam smiles up at Zayn warmly, “You beat me here.” 

“I can be a fast walker when I’m in a hurry.” 

“Didn’t realize you were in a hurry,” Liam frowns, pulling out a microfiber cloth from his black trouser pocket and cleaning his wet glasses. 

“Got sick of staring at the same four walls.” He takes the fabric when Liam hands it over, thick frames back on his face. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah, sometimes I get that way in the lab if I stay too long,” the younger man shares while his hungry eyes take in the day’s offerings behind the glass. “Hey Harry!” 

“Liam,” Harry smiles over his shoulder, “good to see you.” 

“Hey.” Zayn nudges Liam as soon as his specs are back to clear, voice hushed in case the worker behind the counter gets offended by what he’s about to say. “I thought you said this would be a good place to get stuff done?” He casts his eyes downward to where his briefcase is hanging from his shoulder between the two of them in an attempt to show what he meant. 

“It is.” 

Both men lifting their heads up at the same time almost causes their noses to bump together. 

“There’s a desk in the upstairs storage room that I use sometimes,” Liam adds, taking the cloth Zayn’s returning to him. “It’ll be more than enough space for the both of us.” 

Slung over the male’s right shoulder is a laptop backpack, what’s left of the rain, sliding off any time Liam moved, its polyurethane material saving the interior from becoming ruined. Without seeing what’s inside, it’s hard to tell if Liam’s guesstimation of what size area would fit them is accurate, but Zayn does what he’s learned to do - trust Liam’s word. 

“What’d you get?” 

“Brownie and tea,” Zayn answers, watching amusedly as the other side steps his way down the expanse of the display cases, clocking each and every dessert to make sure that what he chooses isn’t second rate. 

Liam’s eyes stay glued on the triple chocolate cake that’s down to only three slices when he tells Harry that he’ll have the same, which makes Zayn question if he really means it, but in the blink of an eye, Liam’s back to grinning straight at him like he’s an even greater source of happiness. And god damn, if that doesn’t edge Zayn’s lips up too. 

“You two are going to sit upstairs, right?” 

Liam turns to nod at Harry in response, taking the two plates of brownies from where they’re sitting near the register afterwards. 

“I’ll come bring up the tea when it’s done brewing,” Harry tells them. 

To save the man some trouble, Zayn snags the empty mugs before following Liam through the shop and up the back staircase. 

Thanks to the ovens hard at work below, and heat rising (that lesson Zayn _did_ remember from science class), the storage room’s a toasty warm. Large sacks of flour and sugar are lined up against the left wall, while the right hosts shelf after shelf of miscellaneous ingredients and instruments, including a tower of plates that looks one heavy step on the floorboards away from toppling over. The far wall is made up of mainly glass, a sturdy piece of wood and four legs act as a desk, flush with the windows; three random kitchen chairs are pushed underneath it. 

“See, I told you,” Liam brags. “This is perfect. And you can barely hear downstairs.” 

He’s right. When Zayn channels his sense of hearing, the sounds of mixers and the light instrumental music playing on the speakers below can barely be made out. Really, the only thing that’s making enough noise to gather his attention is the rain splattering on the window pane from a lack of overhang. It is perfect. 

The words ‘you were right’ nearly leave Zayn’s mouth, but he bites his tongue. Liam deserves the free afternoon snack, not an ego boost that’ll launch him through the roof. “How often do you come up here?” 

“Not a lot,” Liam answers, setting down their two plates on the desk and then starting on taking out what he needs from his backpack, coat now hanging from the back of his assigned chair. “Only when I’m desperate for cheat food.” 

“Does this mean that when I come over on Sunday, we’re not going to get takeaway?” 

“Oh no, we’re definitely getting pizza again.” Wood scrapes against wood as Liam pulls out his chair and takes a seat. “I look forward to those meals almost as much as I do the films. This is an exception to my rule.” 

“So I’m a bad influence is what you’re saying,” Zayn teases with a matching smirk, joining in on arranging his half of the desk now that the two mugs are sitting next to their ceramic plates. 

“Funny, I thought I was _complimenting_ your presence by associating it with my favourite day of the week.” 

Stealing a glance to his side shows the older man that the younger’s quite proud of himself for putting Zayn in his place. It’s the sort of smug that would normally instigate Zayn’s want to prove his own wit, but this is Liam’s unwavering flirtatious side. He may find it natural to speak his mind around the male, but he’s only just started to find his footing, walking around the smooth, yet unpredictable path they’re venturing down together. Baby steps make it so that he doesn’t get caught in a hunter’s trap hidden under an unsuspecting brush. 

“Well,” Zayn starts cautiously, “today’s not Sunday.” 

Ignoring his laptop’s login screen asking for the password, Liam runs the pads of his fingers over the keyboard lightly. “No, it’s not.” With a small smile, he reaches for his brownie. “I guess I’ll have to get used to my favourite day shifting around.” 

“Could you handle having more than one?” 

Zayn swallows down his anxiety, praying that Liam catches on to his insinuation so he doesn’t have to lose their rhythm and explain himself. 

“Might take a little more self-restraint to keep from always filling them with junk food, but I think I can manage. There’ll be something else just as good to make them my favourite.” 

The corner of Zayn’s brownie breaks off without any crumbs falling onto the plate. Its warmth isn’t scalding, just the right amount of heat to have it feel comforting when it’s sitting on his taste buds. 

“Promise I’ll pick a salad place next time. Or,” Zayn licks his lips clean of any brown, “I’ll have _you_ pick a salad place next time.” 

“After our pizza on Sunday,” Liam insists. “I’ve been craving it ever since I saw a much less appealing version at the hospital cafeteria yesterday.” 

Sifting through his briefcase that lays flat on the desk, Zayn yanks out his laptop, tangled earphones, and phone. “Where were you before this?” 

“Exeter. My college,” Liam clarifies when Zayn doesn’t comment straight away. “I don’t know if you remember-” 

“Oh, I remember,” Zayn interjects bitterly, recalling one of their first conversations that revolved around his frustration for their university’s unique student community-departmental system. “What were you doing?” 

“What I’m gonna do now,” Liam points to his screen that shows a bunch of chemical equations on a program Zayn doesn’t even want to know the name of; he’ll wind up engaging in a conversation he wants zero part in. “Cleaning up my calculations and findings. You can’t believe how fast the tissues are growing.” 

If only Zayn’s irrational discomfort towards seeing the insides of the human body, outside of one, didn’t exist. Then he’d be able to witness Liam’s excitement when it strikes him, as soon as he presses his glasses up to the microscope’s viewfinder and notices how much progress has been made since the day before. Now, Zayn can see the electricity buzzing through Liam’s system. He can only imagine what it would look like fresh, the lightning having just cracked through the sky. 

“I’ve been checking out all the videos and pictures you’ve been sending me,” he reassures the other man. 

“Yeah, but you’ve gotta see it in person.” 

The fraction of a millimeter that the tissue samples expand every twenty-four hours isn’t large enough progress for Zayn to face his fears and join Liam in the lab daily, no matter how much the PhD student has attempted to convince him otherwise. However, the dissatisfied twang to Liam’s voice does pull at Zayn’s heartstrings a hair. 

“Today marks the halfway point to thirty days, right?” He asks, jamming the headphone jack into its allotted hole at the bottom of his phone. 

“It sure does! And if the growth rate stays consistent, it would be safe to assume that the project’s a quarter of the way complete too; it’ll be halfway when it’s fully grown. Well,” Liam halts, “when this particular sample will be done growing. I’ve got a second volunteer lined up for the end of February. Then I’ll have to go at it all over again to prove that my success wasn’t just a fluke. Or to correct my wrongdoings and make sure _to_ create a success. Once I run tests on the fully grown samples to guarantee they can do more than just grow outside a heart, then it’s on to placing them on diseased tissues to see if they can heal them like I believe they can.” 

Finishing his second bite of food, Zayn wants to share his excitement with Liam over just how far the researcher’s gotten in fifteen days and of what’s to come, but there’s another question coming to his mind that he’s quite sure has a glum answer. 

“You go into the lab every day to take progress notes, but that doesn’t mean that you aren’t going to be able to go home for Christmas, does it?” 

Liam’s enthusiastic features falter at the mention of his beloved holiday. “I can’t stay for as long as I’d want to.” Instantly, Zayn regrets the question coming out of his mouth. The half-hearted readjustment Liam makes to his thick frames doesn’t even come across as endearing, only solemn. “I’m going to go into the lab early Christmas Eve morning and then take the train home. My Dad’s already agreed to drive me back here after we eat Christmas dinner so I can do tally’s before the end of the day.” 

“Will Niall be here?” 

“No, he’s flying to Ireland the day before Christmas Eve. Gonna spend a week back home.” 

“You should have your Dad stay the night at yours instead of just turning around. That way, you don’t have to be home alone on Christmas night.” 

The thought alone wracks Zayn with anguish. Envisioning Liam, with a Tupperware of leftovers on one side of him and a plate of angel shaped cookies made with love on the other, watching Ant-Man alone in the dark, is quite honestly, up there for one of the saddest things Zayn’s brain has been forced to piece together. A tweak has the fictitious scenario including Liam dressed in his Batman pajamas and Zayn’s having to hold himself back from ditching his own family. Anything to ensure the day that the grown adult’s looked forward to all year round, doesn’t become tainted. 

“I thought about it,” Liam says, turning his eyes back to the spiral notebook that’s to the right of his computer and open to a page that has just as many symbols and numbers on it as his screen does. “But I’ve got a little nephew, and I don’t want any of my family to miss out on seeing him enjoy the whole day.” 

“From what I’ve gathered, Christmas is really important to you all, but you’re important too.” 

Zayn’s words must resonate somewhere within Liam, the male sending him a soft, grateful smile in return. “I know,” he replies just as gently. “They offered to celebrate the whole thing down here to make it easier on me, but I couldn’t do that to them. You’ve been in my flat. It’s too small to have a whole three day celebration.” Zayn completely forgot about Boxing Day. “I’ll cope,” he says confidently, though Zayn would put money on Liam only claiming he’d be alright, just to help convince himself. “It’s only one year. And it’s for the good of science.” 

_Always for the good of science_ , Zayn thinks to himself. The sentiment doesn’t erase all of his concern, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t eliminate a portion of it. Still, he despises the possibility of Liam whispering along to Wolverine lines alone. 

“What about you?” Liam asks. “How long are you going to be gone for?” 

“My train leaves Monday morning.” Leaning his head on his propped up fist, Zayn stares on as Liam eats about half of his brownie in one huge, ambitious bite. 

“Mhmm, and when are you coming back?” 

The return ticket Zayn’s bought says the following Monday. With the holidays, it had cost him almost four times how much it would normally cost to go up to Bradford too. 

“I’m not sure yet.” Liam cocks his head to the side in confusion, simultaneously attempting to eat what’s left of his baked good in another single go. “I still need to talk to my parents about it.” 

He can tell that the answer doesn’t make complete sense to Liam, but thankfully the man doesn’t question him further about it, only darts his eyes over to where the majority of Zayn’s brownie sits, waiting. 

“I guess that means I’ll need to learn how to go without a cheat meal for a while,” Liam realizes, a small sulk coming to his posture when the reality of his words sink in. 

_Not necessarily._

“Then you better enjoy them while they’re here.” Sitting up, Zayn uses his fingers to rip off a reasonable size bite of brownie and pop it in his mouth; the rest of the plate’s stacked ontop of Liam’s empty one. 

“But you hardly ate half,” the scientist points out, his greedy eyes contradicting the prudent words he’s just spoken. 

“It’s all I can handle. The double chocolate’s too rich for me to have any more than that.” 

The lie goes over well with Liam, the male eyeing Zayn one final time as if he’s giving him the option to back out if he wants, before taking a massive bite out of the misshapen rectangle. 

“I only brought one tea pot for the two of you.” 

Harry’s voice causes Zayn to jump in his seat, earning him a crinkled up smile from Liam. 

“But it’s the largest one we have, so hopefully it’s enough,” Harry informs them. “Should do about two cups each I reckon.” 

After the floral tea pot’s set in the middle of the two, nearer to the window than the men’s electronics, Zayn nods to him in thanks. “Brownies were really good too.” 

“You liked them?” Harry’s eyes shine with pride, before the green turns to cockiness. “See what you’ve been missing out on by not coming in sooner?” 

His words are meant for Harry, but Zayn keeps his sight on Liam picking up the last chocolate chip on his plate and tossing it up into his mouth. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna be a regular customer after today.” 

EVLEWT 

Sunlight floods down from the ceiling’s wide skylight and bathes the classroom in a warm brightness. The tempered glass makes it so that the rays don’t beam down overbearingly, instead, bringing an essence of life to the room that would otherwise be dull and lackluster. Its rows of desks and chairs don’t come alive under the ceiling’s recessed lighting, and while the source of the sun doesn’t make a terrible difference in that, it does eliminate the prison-like aura that’s automatic in a room with no windows elsewhere. If it were up to Zayn, he’d rely on it as his _only_ source of light, but that would be irresponsible of him to do while he’s in the middle of showing off photographs. 

The images are being projected onto the whiteboard at the front of the room. A clicker in Zayn’s left hand controls when the next will reveal itself, while a laser pointer in his right is used any time he wishes to point out a specific detail without stepping into the projection and ruining the larger picture. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can make out a raised hand - most likely in response to the point he’s just made on how imperative it is to notice the way in which da Vinci drew staircase blueprints around this specific page of his notes. The scattered pencil sketches take up more of the page than the detailed map of a human body’s blood vessels located in the upper right quadrant of the paper; the darkening of the stairs and torso portion are respective of one another. Some of the staircases were inclusive of the floors in which they led out to, while others stood alone as lonely stairwells. 

Zayn chooses to ignore the hand, letting the person know that he would take questions after he finishes. At the moment, he’s too engrossed in the topic at hand - one that he’s unable to hide his passion for. He can hear it in his voice, the way he speaks quicker any time he points out a peculiarity in shading or comments on the remarkable attention to detail that only the hand of a genius would be able to depict. It’s evident in the way he gestures with his hands as if he isn’t British at all, but full blooded Italian like the man he so desperately idolizes. Not only is the classroom his space, his zone, it’s also the topic at large that puts Zayn on autopilot and unavailable to any third party distractions. 

Click. 

“Now, before I talk about this specific scan, I want to point out how Leonardo used blue paper to take notes on instead of the usual white or yellow. As I mentioned before, da Vinci is Leonardo’s surname, which would suggest that he was born in the Italian town of Vinci, but he was actually born three kilometers away in Anchiano, about two hundred seventy kilometers from Venice. During the Renaissance, Venetians were the ones to popularize blue tinted paper due to the contrast it would create with shading effects that were popular at the time, and the black chalk that became a common tool in the period’s later years. Here, he only uses pen and ink, but it was really the only way he could get the fine lines of the tubes leading into the lungs and heart.” 

Zayn’s rhythm is thrown off once more when he sees the same hand go up, but he tries to recover from his minor pause and continue on. 

“This may be a page out of his personal notebook, but look at how beautifully he managed to frame the drawing with his thoughts and comments.” 

Surrounded by a sea of Italian cursive, lies an illustration of the human heart with its surrounding bronchi and blood vessels, so detailed, that it could be mistaken for a computer generated photo. The lines are as thin as the actual veins themselves, the ink not at all smeared by its creator; proof that he wasn’t at all insecure about his depiction. 

Click. 

“This is a closeup of the sketch. Can you believe someone could so accurately - with only a quill mind you - capture the depth and curvature of the upper chest? A lot of critics wonder why he chose to compare the body so much to the architecture of buildings rather than trees with the way he drew the body. However, there’s a simple answer to that question. He-” 

The hand shoots up for a third time and Zayn’s over trying to ignore it. 

He turns to the only body behind a desk, front and center. “What, **_Liam_**?” 

The named man doesn’t flinch or bat an eye at the way Zayn calls on him - seething with frustration. He simply lowers his hand and keeps his gaze attentive. “Do you know how great a public speaker you are?” 

Zayn scowls. That’s it? That’s what was so important that Liam couldn’t find it in himself to sit still for another twenty minutes? The professors Liam had over the six years he was in medical school had Zayn’s deepest condolences. 

“I’m really not. I hate public speaking,” he says, glimpsing back at the projected photograph in the hopes he can segue back to his speech before his mind’s completely sidetracked from its line of thought. 

“Could’ve fooled me. I’m hanging on to every word you say.” 

Glancing back at Liam, Zayn sees the sincerity in his expression and decides to give way to this conversation in a manner that will appease the man enough to keep his hand down for the remainder of the slideshow. “Thank you, but I think it’s just because I’m talking about something I enjoy. If this place was full and I had to talk about myself, I’d just go blank and stutter the whole way through.” 

“Why? You’re easy to talk about,” Liam replies with that quintessential _Liam_ smile, the one that proves the man incapable of ever telling a lie, his sole purpose in the world only to bring good. 

“Me, as in talking about oneself, or me, as in, me - Zayn?” 

Liam lifts his chin up in a nod, “You, Zayn.” 

“I’m really not,” the lecturer repeats, mouth opening to tell the other to sit down when he stands from his seat, he’s not done talking through his carefully selected images, but Liam can already read his mind. 

“I’ll be quick,” he reassures, stepping around his desk to join Zayn up at the whiteboard. “Trust me, I want to hear the rest of what you have to say. I’m the one that asked for this personal lecture, didn’t I?” 

He did. Twice. Once when they were working at the bakery and Liam had caught a peek of the pictures he was organizing, pleading for Zayn to one day, in the near future, go over them with him. And again, just a few days before when they were lying on Liam’s couch eating pizza and Zayn’s phone illuminated with a text, the lockscreen of an avant-garde stained glass design reminding Liam, to remind Zayn, that he was serious about wanting a day where they just meet and talk about art. So, instead of ruining their diets midweek, Zayn decided to test Liam’s commitment and invite him to one of his past term’s seminar rooms for a private art history lesson. He’s just glad the man’s text of acceptance didn’t try and make any sort of innuendo out of the proposition, only a short ‘I’ll be there!’ accompanied by a skull and crossbones emoji. Zayn would be a lot more nervous of what’s to come of Liam’s approach if he did. 

“Now,” the younger male points to the desk he’s just left where his backpack and jacket are lying on top of, “take a seat and I’ll show you.” 

Not knowing if he should hand over his two presentation aids or not, Zayn decides to take them with him and sets each on the corner of the desk for Liam to use if he so wishes. As soon as he’s got his arms crossed, comfortable in the chair, Liam clears his throat dramatically. 

“Today’s lecture is on professor Zayn Malik.” 

“I’m not a professor,” Zayn gripes. 

“Mr. Malik is twenty-six and has an extremely thick Northern accent when he’s angry.” 

Zayn’s bottom lip stings from the amount of pressure his teeth are biting down with, suppressing a wide smile from forming. 

“He’s obsessed with art, specifically the Renaissance, and teaches at the famed Oxford University, but has no direct affiliation with any of the school’s colleges.” 

Liam’s short wink drives Zayn to drop his front and allow the corner of his lips to creep up. 

“He can be stubborn when it comes to trusting people, especially with food recommendations, but he’s got a good heart.” With the back of his hand, Liam pushes up his glasses that have snuck their way down the bridge of his nose. “Even if he does get squeamish when exposed to cardiomyocytes, that's alright, because he reads and responds to emails really quickly if you need to send him videos of them.” 

Laughter rouses from Zayn’s lungs, not too loud, but still apparent enough to prove its verity. 

“He accepts people for who they are unapologetically, and would gratefully appreciate if you did the same with him, since he’s not yet fully convinced that who he is, is someone that should automatically be treated that way. But it is. Especially since his cool leather jackets and matching boots are proof that he breaks the stereotype behind someone who wears glasses. Oh!” Liam rushes, as if an idea’s just literally popped into his head. “And he’s got a secret sense of humour that he doesn’t show much, but I like.” 

Zayn’s laughter comes back with even more life to it when Liam demonstrates what he means by sticking up his middle finger, and stays when he adds, “but he’s got a horrible taste in favourite Avenger characters.” 

Taking advantage of the open area, Liam starts to pace around the front of the room. “There’s a theory going around that he loves it when you compliment his sense of style, even though he pretends like he’s humble about it.” He stops abruptly at the same time as his face scrunches up in vexation. “He _is_ humble though. Very humble, because he’s a genius. And I know he’s one because of how well he absorbs my own lectures on cardiology and the sorts of questions he asks that prove he actually _wants_ to learn as much as he can. He’s self-aware enough to know his capacity, and that he won’t get to my level of understanding, but he does his best to reach whatever his limit is. And I’m here today to show him that it’s important to me to figure out what my limit is when it comes to art. Just because I’m only a quarter of _his_ research project, doesn’t mean I only want to know about the quarter that pertains to me. 

“Zayn’s reserved, but when he speaks on the things he loves, you feel like a VIP getting to witness this new, vibrant side of him. It reminds me of when your lungs have just refilled your blood with fresh oxygen, and it travels up through the left side of your heart to be pumped throughout your body. And while it maneuvers around all the veins, Zayn calms down from his high and enjoys other things. Like my weird analogies about the body.” 

The older man exhales a single breath of amiable laughter. 

“But he can’t go too long without doing something for himself,” Liam points to the whiteboard that’s still illuminated by the up close sketch of Leonardo’s. “Just like the body can’t survive without oxygen in the bloodstream; so it winds itself back to the right side of the heart in order to be pushed down to the lungs and gain more. I think that’s what makes him a great public speaker.” 

Zayn pulls his arms away from his chest, ready to give the man who’s returned to the center of the room a round of applause, but Liam’s got one last point to make before he can. 

“Fun fact though,” Liam grins, “he’s not all that great at gathering up the courage to ask someone out.” Heat flares up amid Zayn’s face of embarrassment. “So if you want to go on a date with him, you’re most likely going to have to be the one to make the first move.” 

If Zayn wasn’t shocked into silence before, he sure is now. 

“When you get back from the holiday’s, let’s go out.” Liam fidgets with the right cuff of his button down, the first real sign of nervousness Zayn’s ever seen the man exhibit. “There’s this indie cinema in the North of town. I looked and it’s still playing Joker. We can get dinner beforehand if you want too. Or if that’s not your thing, we can finally go to a museum. Just tell me your favourite, since I can guarantee I haven’t been, and we can go. Either or, it’s up to you.” 

The cloud of vulnerability Liam’s currently standing in isn’t too thick for Zayn to see through. It’s an enticing shade of grey, not in the least intimidating; made with space for two. So, Zayn steps into it, knowing that it’s veil will shield him with safety. 

“As long as you’re there, I’ll be happy with either,” he replies. 

“Yeah?” Liam asks, double checking to make sure that Zayn’s not just saying yes to say yes. It’s endearing to the older male - how Liam’s just put himself out there so confidently, yet still needs to be reassured that he’s wanted. 

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, soft smile on his lips. “We’ll figure something out.” 

Elated, Liam’s posture straightens and he gestures to the projection behind him. “Right, well, I’d love it if you got back to your lecture. I promise I’ll wait until the end to voice any more of my comments or questions.” 

“That’d be greatly appreciated,” Zayn responds wryly, getting up to switch spots with the other. 

“Except-” 

“ _Liam…_ ” 

“I know, I know, just one last thing.” 

Leaning his back against the whiteboard, Zayn stares at the man who’s reverted back to looking like one of his actual students. Technically he is one - a student - and perhaps Zayn should think more about agreeing to a date because of that, being a faculty member of the same institution himself; but they’re not in the same department, and Zayn deserves to let himself have this, whatever it is. After a declaration like the one he just gave, Liam would always be the one who got away if Zayn said no. He can feel it. 

“You know me,” Liam prefaces. “So you know how much I love this,” he gestures to the large heart dictated by minuscule scratches of a pen. “But you put other art in here too, right? Like colourful stuff? I want to know about those too.” 

He didn’t, only came prepared to show Liam da Vinci pieces; he had thrown in some artistic work beyond anatomical illustrations, but not many. His laptop however, has plenty. Including the drafted slideshows he’s made for his Spring term master’s level course on the world of Avant-Garde. 

And he’s grateful it does too, because as soon as Liam’s ‘ooing’ and ‘awing’ at the canvases full of odd lines and shapes filled in by a rainbow of colours, what Zayn’s going to get - or make, rather - Liam for Christmas, becomes glaringly evident. 

NEETRIHT 

“What’s this?” 

In Harry’s hands is a long white envelope, his and Louis’ names written in fancy calligraphy along the front. 

“Just a little Christmas present,” Zayn tells him, burrowing into his jacket a bit more when a cold breeze blows through Merton Field. “Although, it’s more for you than for Louis even though he’ll enjoy the outcome. I’m going home in the morning, so I had to give it to you today.” 

Carefully, Harry undoes the flap and pulls out a packet of paper that’s stapled together, folded in thirds. When it’s opened, eyes widen in joy at what’s been gifted to him. 

“Is this your Mum’s?” He asks, flipping through the pages to confirm his speculation. 

“All six pages of it,” Zayn replies proudly. “It’s the whole supper: naan, chicken curry, rice, cucumber salad. I was going to write it all out myself, but I just do everything by eye, so I had her type up the exact recipes and send them to me.” He watches as Harry dissects the curry’s required spice list. “I remember you told me a couple weeks back that you’d like to learn how to cook more savory meals, so I figured you’d like this.” 

Looking up from the papers, Harry meets Zayn’s eyes before leaning over both sets of folding chair arms to give him a hug. “Thank you for this, and for thinking of me.” 

“You thought of me before I even came into the picture,” Zayn reminds him. “It’s the least I can do.” 

“We’re going to mine this year, so I’ll have the kitchen at my disposal to try this out for a meal while we’re there.” 

“Send me pictures and I’ll show ‘em to my Mum if I’m still up North.” 

“Will do.” The envelope gets tucked away in Harry’s tote bag of never ending snacks - cranberry scones this week’s menu item. “Are you going to be gone through New Year’s?” 

Attention back on the slow game in front of them, Zayn shakes his head, along with his right leg. “I was going to come back next Monday, but I changed my ticket to Friday morning.” 

“Do you have plans for New Year’s?” 

“Not really. I thought about going down to London to see some old friends, but they’ve all got girlfriends this year, so I’d rather not third wheel the whole thing.” 

In the far left corner of the pitch, Liam lobs the ball into a mass of men near the goal, his upper body leaning back as he laughs when Niall attempts to make a point by means of headbutt. From the opposite end of the field, Louis pulls at his hair as the ball goes flying out of bounds yet again. 

“Niall and Liam are coming with Louis and I to London to celebrate. We rented a flat in the heart of the city.” Harry studies Zayn’s side profile closely. “You should come.” 

The words intrigue Zayn enough, that he looks away from the game and back to the man at his side. 

“There are only three rooms,” Harry points out, “but I’m sure Liam wouldn’t mind if you two shared.” More wind from the East will be to blame for the redness that comes to tan cheeks. “Or you can take the couch, but either way, we’d like it if you came.” 

An air of obligation runs through Zayn, telling him that in order to keep up this friendship, he can’t simply hand off gifts at holidays and birthdays, he actually needs to participate beyond that. It feels like a crossroads almost. As if not attending would send Harry a message that Zayn didn’t actually mean. But he couldn’t continue to avoid Niall’s pub on Sunday’s and expect to be considered a part of the crew either. Effort. Why were relationships so much effort? 

“You discussed it with the others?” 

Given Harry’s previous comment, it must be obvious to people on the outside how he and Liam operate, the same goes for he and Harry, but Zayn was weary believing that the other two had many positive things to say about him considering they barely ever speak. There’s the small talk on the days Zayn makes it to the game before it starts, and the steadfast comments afterwards to see him and Liam at the pub in a bit. Always of which are followed by a hopeful ‘yeah, maybe’ on Zayn’s part, and a pathetic excuse for an inconspicuous eyebrow raise at Liam from Louis and Niall. But Zayn doesn’t count any of those as real conversations. 

“Briefly,” Harry nods, “at the pub last week.” Leaning back in his chair, he stretches his long legs out, revealing more of his brown heeled Chelsea boots when his black trousers ride up. “I think Louis wants to know more about you than what Liam and I tell him, and Niall just wants to see you drunk. Louis too, but apparently you’ve got unfinished business with the Irish one about sports or something. Says a bit of vodka will loosen you up enough for him to have a go at you.” 

Zayn can’t say he disagrees with the idea. A Grey Goose state of mind would make for a more enjoyable experience of being told his hometown football team and lackluster enthusiasm for absolutely every other sport on earth, is rubbish. 

“And Liam?” 

Although Zayn can guess what Harry’s answer might be, he’s curious to know just how he’ll phrase it. 

“I don’t know why you’re asking about him when you agreed to go on a date with the boy.” 

Or maybe what he assumed was completely off. 

“How do you know about that?” Zayn asks hurriedly. “He only asked me like, three days ago.” 

“Louis’s the one who told him to get a move on.” Bumping Zayn’s shoulder, Harry hands over his first cup of tea for the match. “He kept saying how you weren’t going to sit out here in the cold with me just to get free pastries forever. Which I resented, but have since moved on from.” Zayn holds himself back from smiling as he blows on the hot liquid, tapping his fingers along the side of the mug restlessly. “I heard about it after they went out to breakfast yesterday. Word travels fast between the four of us.” 

_Yeah, no shit._

“Wasted on Absolut will be a time saver then,” Zayn replies, only half teasing; he’s really got watch what he shares with Louis when the time comes for them to properly chat. 

“So you’ll come?” 

There’s no need for Zayn to look at the other, he can hear it in Harry’s voice, how hopeful he is that what Zayn’s saying will manifest itself into existence. 

“I’ll think about it,” the teacher replies. “But thank you for extending the invite.” 

Harry shakes his head, although it’s not towards the dirty shove that was just administered to Niall by his defender, Zayn can tell. “You might as well just say ‘yeah, maybe’.” 

While true, the cheeky comment doesn’t get a reply. Nor does it get any acknowledgement when Zayn repeats his signature catch phrase when Louis asks if he’ll see him later at the pub. At least he can say that this week, he switched it up a smidge - letting Liam know that he needs to swing by his office to pick something up before heading over, and wishing Niall a Merry Christmas in case he’s gone by the time he does. 

Turns out he is, and Zayn’s glad, because on the walk from his office, it occurs to him how it might look, walking into Liam _and_ Niall’s flat with a huge gift under his right arm and nothing under his left. He almost pops into a corner shop to grab a tin of chocolates out of courtesy, but he’ll never forgive himself if his wrapping paper job gets ruined by catching on a corner. God forbid someone spill something on him. He might _actually_ show up to the pub and drown his sorrows. 

“What’s that?” 

Liam’s eyes are swirling with curiosity when he opens the door to his building and sees the shiny red package. As he and Zayn make their way up the stairs, he offers to carry it, but there’s a hint of mischief in his expression that Zayn picks up on - a sign that he’s more than likely looking for an opportunity to gather hints of what’s behind the decorative paper - which causes the older male to decline the gesture before Liam can get his hands anywhere close. 

“It’s your Christmas gift, paws off.” 

“But if it’s mine then it should be paws _on_.” 

“Fine,” Zayn sighs as they walk through the flat door, handing over the thin rectangle so he can unlace his boots. And it’s a good thing he managed to last this long, because as soon as Liam takes it from him, he’s already got the category by feel. 

“It’s a painting,” he guesses confidently. “I should’ve known by the shape and width.” Zayn’s only got one shoe off before he barrels into, “can I open it now? I want to see what it’s of.” 

“I’ve got a feeling that if I say no, you’re just going to open it anyway,” Zayn replies as he struggles to pull his left foot out of the leather boot, nearly toppling over when it finally clears with a valiant tug. 

“I’ll go get yours and then it’ll be fair.” 

The thin green box that Liam brings back to Zayn, who’s now sitting in his usual corner of the front room sofa, sends a spike of adrenaline through the male’s body. He knows the shape well enough to know that it’s jewelry, and Zayn’s got no idea what he’s done to get Liam to think they were at that level to be deserving of a necklace, bracelet, pair of earrings, anything that had an ounce of silver incorporated into it. Liam’s level of thoughtfulness that went into gift giving would be uncomfortably intimate if it’s any of the above. And if he expected Zayn to wear whatever it is on their first date, he might be dining alone. 

“You go first,” Liam insists, handing over the small box adorned with a neatly tied bow. 

“But you were just begging to open mine.” 

“I know, but now I’m eager to see your reaction to what’s in there.” Liam stares at the box in Zayn’s hands - the one that feels a lot lighter than it looks - and waits patiently with his hands in his lap. 

Now that Zayn’s attempt at prolonging the inevitable has failed, he has no choice but to give in to Liam’s wide eyes and undo the ribbon. 

_Please nothing flashy, please nothing expensive, please nothing personal._

“So?” Liam prompts in a tone overflowing with high expectancy. 

“It’s…” 

Not jewelry at all. 

The matching green tissue paper on the inside of the box is pulled back to reveal a perfectly folded black, microfiber cloth; the letters ‘ZM’ monogrammed in white along one of the bottom corners. 

“It’s your own personalized eyeglass cloth,” Liam explains, even though Zayn’s well aware of what it is, pulling it out and feeling how smooth it is against his fingertips. 

“It’s like yours,” he thinks out loud. 

“That’s because it is.” Out of his grey sweatpants, Liam pulls out his red one. “I asked my Mum where she ordered mine and got you the same, but I punched a hole in the top corner.” The small dot comes into Zayn’s vision when he unfolds the sheet entirely. “Hopefully, since it’s special with your name on it, you won’t be so inclined to lose it, but just in case, you can link it onto your keychain or fob or something. Sorry I only put two of your initials, but I don’t know your middle name.” 

How Zayn could’ve ever doubted Liam for giving him an inappropriate gift is a disgrace. There’s the possibility that he bought the cloth for Zayn out of annoyance from _his_ red one always having to be the one to come to the rescue for the two of them, but that’s highly unlikely considering how his fervid energy can be felt from where Zayn’s sitting. 

“Javadd,” Zayn speaks softly, still consumed by the embodiment of Liam’s benevolence in his hands. “My middle name’s Javadd.” 

“Nice, both of ours are ‘J’.” 

Because he can, Zayn takes off his frames and cleans them. They don’t come out any cleaner than they would if he used any of the cloths hiding around his flat, but they feel like they do, and that alone makes Zayn reach for the keys in his jean jacket pocket. 

“Thank you Liam. I really love this, you know,” he says as he loops the material around the metal ring holding his office and flat keys together. 

“Good, because you can’t exactly return things when they’ve got your name on them.” 

Cloth secured, Zayn looks up at where Liam’s grinning back at him. It’s a peaceful thing to stare at, so Zayn takes his time doing so. Picks out the almost invisible freckles near where his eyes crinkle when he laughs, and the tiny patch of hair he missed when shaving really quickly after his post-football shower. Nothing beats the warmth in Liam’s eyes, however. Especially when they light up like a homey fireplace at the sound of Zayn coaxing him to, “go on then. Open mine.” 

Within seconds, Liam’s picking at a fold in the wrapping of the gift by his side. The sound of ripping paper fills the room like a Christmas morning soundtrack until the large canvas is uncovered, showing off Batman’s Bat Symbol in a deep shade of red. Around the centerpiece, against the rest of the white space, are random splotches of colour and lines - all odes to the Avant-Garde styles that Liam had shown an interest in back during Art History 101. 

“You dropped the…” Zayn leans down to pick up the pack of velcro wall adhesive that fell to the floor when Liam tore off the last of the paper and set the artwork in his lap to stare at. “Guess I didn’t tape it on good enough.” 

But if Liam hears him, he doesn’t have anything to say. He’s caught up in the feeling he gets running the pads of his fingers over the raised areas of paint that Zayn had purposely gone over more than once; the grey criss cross pattern in the upper right hand corner being the thinnest, yet best example. He had meant for it to symbolize the manic struggle of going in circles over something time and time again. He doubts Liam will get that, or appreciate the irony without explanation, but to Zayn, it mattered. 

“This is the sickest thing on the planet,” Liam utters. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Where’d you get it?” 

“I made it.” 

Over blocks of purple squares is where Liam’s hand stops its movements and his head shoots up. “ _You_ made this? This came from inside your brain?” 

“It did,” Zayn laughs quietly; out of awkwardness from having to accept a compliment just as much as it is from finding Liam’s wording comical. 

“You painted me a Batman painting?” 

“It seems that way.” 

“And it’s for me?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“How long did this take you? When did you start working on this? Why didn’t you tell me that your paintings were like this? Have you done other superhero logos?” 

Liam’s bombardment of questions doesn’t irritate Zayn or overwhelm him like it might if it came from another person who just found out that he’s half decent with a paint brush, wondering why he doesn’t show off more of his work. Out of Liam’s mouth, they’re a reminder of how much the male truly cares. About Zayn, about the painting, about the little things in life. It’s refreshing, but not even the passionate tone can combat the headache that Zayn can feel coming on quickly. 

“Took me a while to pencil out the shape of the symbol and get it symmetrical, but over all, not too long, don’t worry,” he replies quickly. “And no, I haven’t done any other superhero paintings, just a few drawings here and there. Yours is one of a kind.” 

“One of a kind,” Liam whispers to himself as he goes back to marveling over the artistry balancing in his lap. “Like I said, it’s ace. I love it. Thank you so much Zayn.” Mindfully, he leans the painting on the side of the couch, but when he moves in to give the other man a hug, he turns concerned. “Are you ok? You don’t look so good.” 

That doesn’t surprise Zayn. His entire skull feels like it’s pulsing with pain like a cartoon character whose head is blowing up like a balloon, only to deflate dramatically again. “I’ve just got a headache, it’s ok.” 

“Here.” Liam’s up and off the couch in a flash. “Let me get you some paracetamol.” 

Zayn’s got nothing to say other than “thank you” when he’s being given a cup of water and two pills less than a minute later. After taking the medicine and emptying the glass, he nods to the canvas. “Do you want to put that up while you’ve got an extra set of eyes and hands?” Anything for Zayn to have a distraction. 

“Yeah, good idea,” Liam agrees as he balls up the wrapping paper and looks around the sitting room’s barren walls. “Where do you think is a good spot?” 

“Actually,” Zayn says while closing up his gift’s box, “I thought the red would match your duvet cover.” 

“The canvas size is perfect to put above the headboard, you’re right!” 

A light smile hangs on Zayn’s lips as he takes off his jacket to get more comfortable, following Liam into his room with the double sided adhesive after. 

“Let me do the measurements, and then you can hold it up while I put the strips on,” Liam suggests, setting the painting on top of his chest of drawers to fish out the tape measure from the tool box he grabbed on the way in. 

“So, what’d you end up getting your Mum?” Zayn asks from his seat on the end of the bed. 

“A portable photo printer that hooks up to her phone.” The bed shakes under Liam’s body weight shifting while he finds the center point between the top of the bed and the ceiling. “She takes a lot of pictures of the family, but she’s not the best at technology, so I thought I’d make it easy for her to actually get the pictures off of her phone; it’s Bluetooth.” A note gets made in Zayn’s mental leger for Mother’s Day. “What’d you get yours?” 

“Herb seeds she can grow in her windowsill,” Zayn answers, pulling apart the four Velcro strips and playing with one between his fingers. “She cooks a lot.” 

“I like that.” 

“Yeah, I think she will too.” 

“You should put them in small empty pots and wrap those.” 

Zayn thinks back to his flat where the packets sit in a decorative envelope, and then flicks the end of the strip with his thumb several times in frustration. “Harry invited me to go with you guys to London for New Year’s Eve.” 

“And what do you think?” Liam asks while he makes small tick marks in the wall by scraping his fingernails up and down the paint job. 

“I don’t know.” 

Truthfully, Zayn’s gotten over the element of intimidation when it comes to how much constant socializing he’ll need to be turned on for. It’ll be a good way for him to stay busy and not end up watching the countdown on TV with some takeaway, alone. Maybe he’ll even get lucky and be able to witness drunk Liam with his own eyes, instead of hearing Harry’s slow motion replay of it the Sunday they get back. 

“I’m going to go to the lab before the coach leaves that morning, and come back on the latest train New Year’s Day,” Liam informs him. “It’s a quick trip.” 

“Yeah, I’m not worried about that.” 

“Then, is it about the beds? Because chances are, Niall won’t even use his. I can’t promise anything, but let’s just say that the odds are in your favour. Alright, hand me over one.” 

Zayn turns his head to see that Liam’s motioning for a strip to put up, pulling apart the Velcro piece he was playing with and handing over half. “It’s not about the beds,” he responds, doing the same to the other three strips and getting up to adhere his half on the back of the canvas edges. 

“So then, what is it?” 

With the painting ready to be hung, Zayn joins Liam on the bed and waits patiently for the other to guide the canvas he’s holding so that it matches up with the wall’s strategically placed adhesives. “There’s going to be people everywhere,” Zayn states as he tries to keep his raised arms as still as possible for Liam. “And it’s going to be freezing.” 

“I didn’t realize your social anxiety’s that bad.” 

The words come at the same time Liam presses the bottom edge of the canvas to the wall, causing Zayn to do the same with the two sides he’s holding. “I don’t have social anxiety,” Zayn mumbles gruffly, about to step off the bed when Liam grabs his left wrist and keeps it against the painting. 

“Wait, you’ve got a piece of tape on you,” he says, reaching for the underside of Zayn’s left arm - exposed from the sleeve of his white t-shirt riding up at that angle. “Must’ve gotten stuck when you were wrapping this.” 

“Don’t!” Zayn snatches his arm away quickly, before Liam has the chance to touch the area where a square of clear, reflective material is stuck to his skin. “It’s not tape,” he discloses in a sullen tone. “It’s a nicotine patch.” 

“Oh.” 

Stepping off the bed, Zayn walks over to the dresser where he gathers the backing paper that kept the strips sticky. He’s about to search for a bin near or under Liam’s desk, but the man meets him halfway. 

“Hey,” he starts, soft in tone, as well as in body language. “I think that’s really courageous of you.” 

Zayn scoffs, keeping his eyes down and away from Liam’s, “We’ll see if you still say that in a couple of days when I inevitably light up.” 

It’s how the cycle always ended. The promise of better health in the future always drove Zayn to stop in the first place. Being as up close and personal with science as he had been in the past month, is how he got to phase one so quickly this time around - psyching himself up that this time was going to be the one. It’d lead into phase two, where he bought the necessary aids that would make the process easier than going cold turkey. The time before last he went so far as to buy the entire ten week pack in the hopes that the £110 price tag would force him to use them all. Standing outside a Shoreditch pub a few days later, unwrapping a new pack, he cursed himself for how many a hundred quid could’ve bought him. A full programme or one packet of gum, it didn’t matter. Zayn never made it past week one. It’s why when Liam tells him that “it’s a step in the right direction for you to at least start”, he shakes his head humourously. 

“Please don’t turn into your medical stereotype now, of all times.” 

“I won’t, I won’t,” Liam vows hurriedly. “I just think you should see it as something positive, instead of going under the pretense that you’ll definitely fail. You don’t know that.” 

“It’s like playing a recording of my Mother,” Zayn deadpans, wishing that the paracetamol would hurry up and do its job before Liam’s cheerful disposition starts to trigger the irritation that comes during phase two. 

“It’s good that you’ll be with your family starting tomorrow,” Liam continues, unphased by Zayn’s sarcasm. “Your mind will stay preoccupied with the holidays.” 

A brief silence comes over the two men when Zayn can’t find it in himself to say anything other than to tell Liam to put his hopes back down, this isn’t something that’s worth talking about when it’s not going to have a happy ending. The fact that he was even optimistic enough to think ahead to New Year’s Eve is a miraculous improvement to how he usually treated himself; Liam should be happy with that. 

“How many days has it been?” the scientist asks. 

Shifting his weight out of discomfort for still being put on the spot about this, Zayn crumples the rubbish in his hand even tighter. “I started yesterday morning.” 

Gently, like he’s afraid Zayn will lash out at him if he moves too fast, Liam reaches out and unclenches the male’s balled up fist with lithe fingers. “You can’t do this by yourself. You need a support system, and your family will be a good one for the next few days, or week, or however long you spend there.” Zayn feels the crushed paper be slipped out of his grip. “But I’m going to be here for you when you come back. And so will Harry if you let him. Niall and Louis too, but I know you don’t know them all that well. We’ll all be there for you so you can make it.” Zayn fights with himself to look Liam in the eye, only ignoring the instinct to turn away because he deserves it for speaking to Zayn like he is. “I’m proud of you,” Liam adds as a final conclusion. 

Empty of any wrappers, Zayn’s right hand falls down to his side slowly. His headache is still strong, the frontal part of his cerebral worse than the back, but it’s hushed the more he comprehends how deeply Liam cares to follow through with his words, and the true pride in which he feels for Zayn bettering his health. 

“I’ll text you,” Zayn promises. “If I need to destress or something while I’m home and I’ve had enough of my family, I’ll reach out to you.” 

The minimal tension in the younger man’s shoulders is erased, telling Zayn that he’s proved his gratitude. 

“I’ve always got my phone on me,” Liam replies, pulling it out of his sweatpant pocket as evidence. 

Words refuse to come to Zayn’s mind, so he’s stuck standing in his spot, waiting for Liam to lead them into a safer topic. And after taking a step backwards to throw away both of their rubbish, he does exactly that. 

“Looks good up there,” he says while pointing to the perfectly positioned painting. 

Zayn keeps to himself how pathetic the room was before it had the signature piece, and the strides that still need to be made with the other walls - including those beyond Liam’s bedroom. He settles on a simple, “it does.” 

“Thank you,” Liam hums. “It’s my favourite gift of the year.” 

“You’re a little premature in saying that,” Zayn chuckles. 

“So what?” The phone in Liam’s hand gets passed over. “You can choose where we order from today.” 

Zayn’s eyebrows rise in shock, “really?” 

“Yeah, go for it.” 

Staring back at him is their beloved takeaway app, ready to trade money for convenience. Zayn scrolls only once to find his place - A Taste of Lebanon. 

“I take back what I said,” Liam chides. He plucks the phone out of Zayn’s hand and walks out of the room, leaving a defeated Zayn to follow in his wake. 

NEETRUOF 

Time spent visiting your family can either go one of two ways. One, you’re hit with an overwhelming wave of nostalgia and find yourself laughing at practically everything because you’re just happy to be in the same room as all the people who taught you the meaning of love; forget all of their shortcomings. Or two, you question whether or not you have the serial killer gene somewhere deep down inside of you so you have something to blame for the irresistible urge to murder anyone who walks through the door with your surname. For Zayn, there’s never really been an inbetween. And this year, his imaginary samurai sword’s been getting a lot of good use. 

It didn’t start the second he walked in the door, though. His parents were as doting as ever for the first twenty-four hours, showering him with adoration and hugs as much as they could; happy to have their son and only fully independent child in their presence after not having seen him in the flesh for well over six months. Even his sisters were on their best behavior. Except the one below him, Waliyha. She may be working on becoming a beauty something or other, but her real passion in life is to do whatever it takes to get Zayn to snap. Lucky for her, nicotine withdrawal makes her job a lot easier this trip. 

Christmas Eve marked day four of no smoking. Historically, it’s a pivotal one for Zayn, and more times than not, ends up being phase three’s final leg. He knows why too - the positive outlook has usually faded and the cravings start to come at full force, as if they’re letting him know ‘alright, that little hiatus was fun, but now it’s time to go back to how things are meant to be’. Even with the patch releasing the chemicals into his bloodstream slowly, those voices in his head refuse to shut up. They kept him awake all night, which meant walking into the front room to open presents the next morning was like walking into a minefield for the rest of the family, unbeknownst to them. The smallest of remarks had Zayn gritting his teeth in irritation; a simple ask of his well being made him clench his jaw. It took Waliyha a whole twenty minutes before she got him to his breaking point. “Wow Zayn, you got Mum plants? Not even like the full thing, just the seeds? You’re really _that_ busy saving lives as a fake doctor to not get them already grown?” 

It was when his Mum went after him into the kitchen that she learned the reason why her son’s eyes were bloodshot from no sleep and his skin paler than normal. And Zayn appreciated the supportive hug and handful of kisses that followed, but that didn’t take away how much of a monumental effort it took to not bite back at one of his cousins who asked him why his leg was shaking so much all day. 

As much as discovering that Liam had to cut his holiday festivities short because of his research duties was upsetting for Zayn, he was glad for the excuse to come back to Oxford early. If Zayn hadn’t felt the need to make sure Liam wasn’t completely alone during the break, he’d still have an extra four days to spend dodging his family like the plague. He wouldn’t be getting annoyed by the blindingly white walls of Radcliffe Hospital - an occurrence so common that Zayn finds it hard to decipher whether or not he’s pissed off by it because he always is, or if it’s the withdrawals talking. 

Either way, he puts up with the agitation long enough to reach the research lab door where he knows there will be a man who's smile will take it all away. He’s not disappointed either, Liam nearly jumps at the knock on the lab door window before his face is split in half from a surprised smile, eyes squeezed so tightly in joy that he almost falls over one of the chairs next to him when he gets up. 

For the hour they meander around the upper floors of the hospital, finishing the coffee and bag of Wotsits Zayn brought with him, Liam’s elation hardly diffuses. Zayn’s is there too, peeking out from underneath his eyelashes through a warm shade of hazel, but it’s much more subtle. It doesn’t at all mean that he’s any less impassioned to hear about Liam’s whirlwind of a twenty-four hour trip to Wolverhampton. No, he’s looked forward to learning the details about how the male’s oldest sister joke-gifted her four year old son a lemon ever since Liam had texted him about it Christmas morning. That, and how much weight Liam actually put on from all his Mother’s cooking, rather than just reading about how many kilograms he undoubtedly exaggerated with; if anything, he looks like he lost weight compared to Zayn. 

“Looks like you didn’t need me there to convince your Mum you’re within the healthy bracket after all,” Liam teases. 

“No, but maybe you’ll need to come next year just in case.” 

Liam’s crinkly eyed smile is renewed for another hour after that. 

It stays as they go over his research’s thirty day benchmark assessment he was in the middle of completing when Zayn surprised him, and even grows when the teacher asks to see the samples in person for the first time since they were harvested. 

“You’re sure? I can just keep going over my charts and growth predictions.” 

“Thirty days is a big accomplishment,” Zayn points out as he puts on the required white coat to enter the experimental portion of the lab. “And from the pictures you sent me the other day, they just look like really tiny pieces of napkin. Actually, saying that out loud just lowered my confidence…” 

But this one time, his uneasiness towards organic biology is overthrown by the need to share in someone else’s unbridled enjoyment - one that’s been created all on their own. 

At first, Zayn walks up to station number one where Liam’s got a small 15cm x 15cm square chemical bath (the substances’ names of which he’s gotten written down in bold and underlined in his notes, not in his long term memory) hesitantly, afraid of how he’ll react, but he’s pleasantly surprised when he’s intrigued by the thin sheet of red rather than turned off by it. It’s taking up about 50% of the container, floating on the surface of the clear liquid, and turned over by Liam via surgical tweezers with the utmost of care once a day - that part he does remember. The microscopic veins look like small rivers tied up in one another, not any different than they look in the jpgs, but somehow more magical now that his eyes can study the twists and turns in their natural state. There’s a computer monitor to the right of the station, projecting what the magnifying camera is picking up from its spot directly above the clear receptacle. This is the footage that Liam’s been capturing and sending over to accompany the still photographs, yet being able to behold the erratic cells bouncing around in real time, knowing that what he’s witnessing is actually happening an arms length away from him, is mind blowingly beautiful to Zayn; he’s never seen a baby be born, much less created one, but he imagines that’s what Liam must feel like underneath his exploding smile - a proud father. One who chose to adopt an already grown child, and teach them that they’re not constrained to its original form or size, but that they can be as meaningful to the world as it wants to be with the right help. 

“Does this count as our first date?” Zayn asks after he’s already complimented Liam on how incredible his brain is and gone down the line to witness the other samples. 

“I did say after you got back, didn’t I?” A small nod from Zayn gives the researcher another reason to smile. “I would’ve worn something a lot more casual than my hospital attire if I knew it was going to be today.” 

Both men look over Liam’s outfit: a baby blue button up, black slacks, and matching black dress shoes. 

“I’m glad I surprised you then,” Zayn replies, keeping his voice steady. “People don’t dress up enough for first dates. And if they do, they don’t come out looking as good as you.” 

“Or you.” 

Zayn looks down at white button up that he’s tucked into his black trousers. The black leather jacket that’s hanging on the back of his usual chair at Liam’s desk dresses the outfit down, but as he is now, with the addition of the long white lab coat, he could blend in fairly well as a real doctor. So long as Walihya never gets a hold of a picture of him dressed like this, he’d wear it as often as Liam wanted to now that his fear of bloody microorganisms isn’t at an all time high any more. 

“When we go on our second, we should try just as hard,” Zayn proposes, sticking his hands in the coat pocket just because he can. 

“Should I make a reservation for the commissary upstairs?” 

“No, I’ve got an even better idea.” 

“Better than my secret shepherd’s pie?” 

In his pockets, Zayn’s fingers drum against his thigh with slight annoyance. “I was trying to be smooth and you ruined it. Going on about your food lists.” 

“I’m sorry,” Liam apologizes in a serious tone, though the smile on his face says he’s still amused at the last part that was mumbled under Zayn’s breath. “Try again, I’ll shut up.” 

Suspicious eyes watch Liam’s posture straighten. “I was going to say, we should go to The National Gallery to see the da Vinci exhibition that’s on. It’s small, only about one altarpiece of his, but I figured that since you’re an early student of art, it’ll be good for you to enrich your learning experience by having a field trip. We’ll already be in London, so it’s perfect.” 

“You’re coming with us then?” Liam asks, lighthearted in his approach, waiting to be told yes so that his invisible golden retriever tail can wag freely. 

“I made it to day seven.” Such weighty words cause Zayn to take a deep breath. “Which I’ve never done before, so I’m sort of going by instinct at this point. Distractions are probably the only reason I’m still standing honestly.” 

“I am a pretty good one if I need to be.” 

Smirking at the arrogant, modelesque pout that Liam’s purposefully making, Zayn does his best to make it seem like he’s unbothered. “I was worried about the triggers, and the weather, since I always go for a smoke when I feel cold, but I’ll just wear a lot of layers.” 

“And we’ll sneak through the back of the pub so you don’t have to go through the crowd of smokers that are always out front.” 

Zayn bows his head and laughs at the image of them - two nicely dressed men wearing thick, prescription glasses - running through a dingy pub kitchen. “I’m not doing that.” 

“I’ll take care of you,” Liam promises. “Don’t worry about a thing.” 

It’s not the easiest of things to do when Zayn’s the one having to experience the withdrawal symptoms, but he doesn’t have a choice. He’s intelligent enough to know that leaning on someone who’s willingly bracing themselves for the added weight isn’t an option he can afford to take his time thinking about. So when he finds himself becoming overly anxious making himself a cup of tea at five the next morning, he doesn’t throw the mug on the kitchen floor, he checks what time sunrise is at and calls Liam to see if he can join him on his morning run. He makes it a lot farther than he thought he’d be able to go - almost a mile and a quarter, before he’s hands on knees, bent over in a full coughing fit. Liam means well when he tells Zayn “all the more reason to not open a pack”, but he still gets a death glare amid a lung being coughed up, in response. Football’s cancelled the day after with Liam being practically the only player still in town out of the twelve of them, and not sitting next to Harry, freezing his ass off while watching a bunch of amateurs run around chasing a ball, is greatly missed by Zayn. He won’t ever admit to Niall that that means he misses the game itself; although, Zayn doesn’t dismiss the idea completely. Perhaps voicing the feeling of absence will allow for him to gain some type of sport related respect from the Irishman, and shorten the lecture that’s coming. Then again, it might make it longer. 

“He’ll probably quiz you on the formations he and Louis have been trying out for us if you tell him,” Liam says while picking out their first superhero film of the afternoon - an event that he refuses to be cancelled. 

Zayn chucks the idea out the window straight away. 

On Monday, his Mum calls him to check in on his progress. She’s brave, calling under the assumption that he’s gotten that far when every other time he’s quit smoking, she’s been met with a ‘I’m halfway through my latest box’. But maybe that’s why she waited so long to call in the first place - to live the last week as if he _had_ been smoke free, because if she didn’t know that he wasn’t, then in her mind, he could be. Needless to say, she’s practically squealing from delight when she hears that the last cigarette Zayn picked up was still ten days ago. Hearing the excitement in her voice isn’t unexpected, in fact, Zayn would probably be worried about her if she didn’t smother him in praise for any small accomplishment he achieved, but it awakens something in him that _is_ unexpected. Or, maybe the emotion isn’t _unexpected_ , as much as it is more impactful than Zayn’s experienced it to be in the past. 

Pride’s always something his entire family’s had for him, Zayn’s been lucky in that way. To be blessed with a brain to have an extra something to be prideful of, and parents who insist on letting him, along with the rest of the world, know how it doesn’t deserve to go unnoticed; Zayn’s lived with that shout it from the rooftop mentality since he can remember. And while it’s been a helpful aid in his character building, career shaping, momentum through the years, it’s never been a foundational ‘why’ to any of it. His parents being proud of him getting his artwork hung up in the primary school library? Carrying his youngest sister five blocks home from the park when she fell off the monkey bars and scraped her knees up instead of leaving her to go get help? Solidifying a job at not just theirnation’s top, but the _world’s_ top university? They were all things Zayn just _did_. He knew right from wrong, but if his parents found his choices worth being prideful over, then that was always just an added bonus. He never lived life under the pretense of what would make his parents proud. But now, hearing his Mother almost brought to tears over the success of her son seeing something through, Zayn sees that his health isn’t the only reason failure’s not an option. He needs to quit for his Mother. 

Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, the prospect of having to get on a bus for ninety minutes without the ability to move beyond walking up and down the skinny aisle too much for Zayn, he closes his eyes and thinks of his Mum. The house filled with the aroma of Eastern spices and her voice calling for a younger version of him to come sit on the countertop to stir for her, a memory he desperately holds on to. And Liam’s hand. He holds on to that too when they’ve found their seats, the driver of the coach letting everyone know that they’ve got two more stops within the Oxford city limits before they’re on their way to London. 

The next time he needs to tap into his memory bank for a comforting reminder of his Mother’s love, is after the group of five drops their stuff off at their rented flat in the city. They decide on a small Korean hole-in-the-wall place for lunch, and Zayn knows from living in the capital for six years finishing his schooling, that the only way to get the best of its food, is to wait. Or pay your way in, but Zayn’s most likely got the highest salary of them all, and he’s not slipping anyone a tenner to let them in quickly, so they’re stuck waiting in the line that’s snaking around the corner. Besides having to endure teasing from Louis about how perfectly nerdy he and Liam were for each other, “dressing proper posh, all for a clusterfuck of a tourist trap”, and making a bet with Niall that he _wouldn’t_ get a stain on his rustic orange cable knit jumper from the kimchi sauce this place was known for, Zayn didn’t let the cold get to him. He can’t say the same for when a man, two people behind them, raises a lighter to his lips. Liam tells the others to text him when they get inside, he’s going to take Zayn for a walk around the block. Having mentioned his journey to becoming a non-smoker when it was his turn on the bus to explain how his holiday at home was to the group, Zayn doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt for not giving an explanation for the sudden departure. 

Thankfully there’s nothing triggering on the Tube ride to the museum. There was a man who reeked of smoke waiting to reload his Oyster card, but Zayn held his own until it was his turn to top-up. With the celebration portion of New Year’s Eve day not being until the night time, the platform isn’t too busy, and thankfully, neither are the subway cars. Having a seat gives Zayn the opportunity to relax, his body leaning on Liam’s as they pass under the streets of London. 

The material of Liam’s long black peacoat is softer than it looks. It’s pressed against Zayn’s right hand that’s resting at his side, resisting the urge to slip into the right pocket of his navy blue utility jacket. The younger man’s also sporting a white button down that looks thicker than the other smart shirts Zayn’s see Liam wear, and a black bow tie. “It took me about ten times to get the knot right, but it’s an easy way for me to look fancy without trying too hard, don’t you think?” He’d told Zayn once he came out from changing back at the flat. Even more self-restraint was needed to simply nod and grin in agreeance than to stop from nicking off to the nearest convenience store for a packet of Marlboro’s. Liam’s pair of formal, midnight black trousers made Zayn feel extremely inferior. He thought he’d changed into something acceptable - a button down that matched the colour of his jacket, with its short collar standing up against his neck, rather than folded down around the edge of his jumper, and wrist cuffs poking out of the heavy material, as well as cream coloured jeans - but seeing what Liam had picked out, made Zayn want to go back home and switch out for a suit. Although, when they’re standing in line (indoors and away from any plumes of smoke) waiting in front of the entrance to the exhibition hall within the famed London museum, it occurs to Zayn that no matter what he brought, he didn’t stand a chance at being able to hold a light to Liam in formal wear. 

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier,” Zayn starts timidly, glancing over at the stunning man next to him, “but you look really nice.” 

For the first time, Zayn’s cheeks aren’t the ones stained rose pink. The colour matches the tint of Liam’s bottom lip that’s spread wide in a bashful grin. “You told me when we were waiting for a cab to go eat,” he reminds the other. 

“Well,” Zayn grips his phone that’s got their tickets illuminated on the screen, tighter. “I’m telling you again.” 

“Thanks.” 

They both step forward, Zayn handing over his phone to the worker for her to scan. 

“I didn’t think wearing your shirt collar up, could look so cool,” Liam adds. 

Instinctively, Zayn’s hand reaches up to his neck, making sure that the lapel is still sticking up and hasn’t given in to its lower crease. 

“He’s right.” The woman who’s returning Zayn’s phone back to him eyes the expanse of his neck and upper chest. “It looks great on you that way.” 

Zayn’s got just enough time to tell her thank you before the fingers of his left hand are being laced with Liam’s, the younger male pulling him gently towards the exhibit. “C’mon,” he says, “teach me about what all of this means.” Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever held a more smug smirk in his life. 

Each side of the corridor leading into the exhibit is decorated in square boxes that jut out from the wall. Inside almost all are images that can be categorized as abstract, but when viewed from afar, come together to create a cohesive picture of a mountain side. The boxes that are instead blacked out, Liam gravitates to. 

“I can’t read it,” he pouts, eyes squinting behind his glasses as if that will help in making out the white words. 

When Zayn gets a look, his lips turn up. “Remember what I told you early on about da Vinci? How he wrote backwards?” He points to the side of the box that’s a mirror, “you need to read its reflection to be able to make it out. But-” 

Liam’s wide shoulders budge him forward now that he knows the code to uncovering the secret message. His pout resurfaces when he’s met with blockade number two. “It’s in Italian.” 

“Do you want me to translate?” 

“You speak Italian?” 

From Liam’s tone of bewilderment and confused expression comes Zayn’s short laughter. “How’d you think I answered all your questions on da Vinci’s notes when we were going over his notebooks?” 

“I didn’t think you were actually reading me verbatim what was on the page,” Liam replies. “I just thought you knew the material so well that you were able to give me proper answers that way.” 

Pulling his head away from the box, Zayn moves on to the next. “My main expertise is in the Italian Renaissance. I pretty much had to learn Italian. If I didn’t,” he skips the closest black box after that and walks to one further down the wall, “I wouldn’t have been able to see the art or artists, in depth. Doing primary source research for my writing would’ve been a lot more restrictive if I didn’t know how to read it either.” 

“Virtually every major medical journal is in English…” 

“Good, no room for mistranslation.” Zayn shrugs at his findings, “They’re all just telling you about who da Vinci was and how he grew up. I already taught you all of that.” 

Without hesitation, Liam links his hand back with Zayn’s when the other returns to his side. “I can speak French though.” 

“Oh yeah?” Before they walk into the first room on their left, Zayn stops to get a good look at Liam in the darker lighting. 

The frames of his glasses catch the light, but shadows play along the man’s short beard and temples in a way that makes Zayn want to reach up, and pull his neck down for a kiss. It’d be soft, like the hairs that don’t cooperate with Liam’s short fringe that’s pushed into a bending wave, and instead fall against his forehead. Itchy fingers hold back from correcting the outliers, enjoying the way they bring a humanistic element to the sculpture in front of him. 

“Yeah,” Liam responds, looking past Zayn and into the room behind him. He tugs him in its direction while nodding, “I’ve been fluent since I went to nursery.” 

“Why is this the first I’m hearing about it, then?” 

“Dunno,” Liam shrugs, his eyes scanning the busy room. “I didn’t want to brag.” 

There’s something to the way Liam’s avoiding his eyes that has Zayn curious. “Bonjour,” he says cheerfully. “Comment ça va?” _How are you?_

The researcher clears his throat, a new air coming over him - a nervous one - now that he’s being put on the spot. His “bonjour” is confident, but Zayn really has to restrain himself from laughing when the answer to his question winds up being, “Je m’appelle Liam.” _My name is Liam._

“Je m’appelle Zayn,” the older man nods, keeping his smile cordial. “D′où viens-tu?” _Where are you from?_

Beads of sweat are practically gathering at Liam’s brow. “Um, je joue au football.” _I play football._

At the sound of football, Zayn nods even more enthusiastically to gain Liam’s trust that it’s an acceptable answer to his question. “Parles-tu anglais?” _Do you speak English?_

“J’aime le pizza” _I like pizza._

The choked noise that comes from the back of Zayn’s throat is the closest thing he’s going to allow himself to get to laughing. If there’s one thing he took massive advantage of when it came to learning Italian, it was that you should always listen for context clues and cognates; even with Liam’s shitty French accent, pizza is one of those words that hardly ever needs translating. “Pizza, huh?” Zayn keeps his teasing tone to a minimum. “Pizza’s good.” 

“So you speak French too?” Liam asks, more than grateful that they’re back to speaking his very obvious one and only language. 

“No, but I’ve had to go to Paris more times than I can count for art exhibits, so I taught myself enough to not get lost. Don’t worry,” he brings their laced hands up to his lips for a kiss. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

As if it’s required that the two be on equal plains, Liam doesn’t let their hands drop before he’s kissed the back of Zayn’s hand. “Help me understand this,” he says afterwards, eyes flitting around the room they’re standing in the middle of. 

A fake skylight illuminates the space from the slanted ceiling to their left, under it a large easel and painting supplies. A desk filled with letters and books is on display next to that, open boxes laying around the chair that’s pulled out. On the right side of the room are three individual set-ups: an aged filing cabinet with mathematical reference books lined on top of it, a chemistry station that looked eerily similar to Liam’s research lab environment with all of its beakers and microscopes, and finally a wooden book shelf that held miscellaneous samples, most of them looking to be types of soil. 

“Why don’t you tell me what you think it means first,” Zayn retorts in a tone not too far off from the one he might use when talking to a student in a seminar setting. By the way Liam stays silent as he continues to survey the room, Zayn can tell that he might’ve scared the man from speaking his mind. “There’s not really a wrong answer,” he presses gently. “Just talk it out.” 

“Well, it looks like it could be the inside of his house,” Liam starts, voice sounding insecure, but willing. “You know, with the window and all the furniture and stuff.” 

“Yeah, it could be.” 

Liam follows Zayn as he pulls them around the room in a clockwise fashion, looking at the displays closer. “Or, um, I don’t know, I guess it could be…” He stares at the artificial letters as if they’re on a scavenger hunt and the papers hold clues as to where the treasure is. “Nothing special? Like, maybe it’s only a display and there’s no hidden meaning to it at all.” 

“Yeah, that could be true too.” 

“Come on,” he nudges Zayn childishly. “What does it actually represent?” 

“Do you know the beautiful thing about art? Even art installations or the way in which different mediums are presented?” 

“Tell me.” 

“That it gets to live a different life for each person that comes across it. It’s the only thing on earth that can span lifetimes, and yet never once have its reception be duplicated. 

“Take the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, one of the most famous architectural masterpieces in the world. The way a six year old tourist looks at the basilica is completely different to how I would as a professional and is completely different to how a fifty year old praying inside would. The interior columns may leave an impression on the child based on his height, whereas I may look at the same pillars and see how they symbolize trees of life, one of the earliest creations of God. And because the middle aged person has their head tilted back, looking at the ceiling of the church, they’re probably not paying attention to the art of the building at all. To them, it’s just a sanctuary for their faith to live in freely. 

“This,” Zayn motions to the room they’ve finished circling, “is something different to each person that comes across it, regardless of whether or not the person who put it together intended for it to only have a single meaning. Once art is put out in the world, the creator doesn’t own it anymore. They have no control over how people perceive it, and good artists know that. They have to learn to accept that they may have meant for this to actually be the inside of da Vinci’s brain, with the separate sections representing the different parts that he worked and the light coming in being from his eyes.” Liam’s small “ohhhh” has Zayn pausing to smile. “But, there’s no sign that the curator put up to tell you that. They allowed you to take from this whatever it is that you wanted to, without any intervention from them.” 

As Zayn’s about to lead them out and into the next room, Liam’s grip on his hand tightens and keeps him in place. 

“Hearing you speak about the thing you love is an art in itself,” the man declares. “For the rest of the time that we’re here, I don’t want you to stop. Ok?” 

How Liam stares at him with such intensity, such candor, Zayn could never say no. 

“Oui,” he finally responds, smiling from the infectioness of Liam’s, as well as the second kiss his knuckles receive. 

And true to his word, Zayn doesn’t hold back. 

For the remainder of the da Vinci exhibit, he teaches Liam all about how the simplest of lighting changes can make a huge difference to an artist's work. When they’re standing in front of the altarpiece that the showcase is based around, he educates the younger male on how to look at art from its side in order to use the light’s reflection to see which parts of the design had thicker paint layers - insight into the portions of a painting the artist took their time on getting right, and ultimately which held the most meaning to the final piece of work. 

Upstairs, where the rest of the National Museum lived, Zayn points out how different brush strokes give way to the time period in which they were made. He smiles to himself when Liam draws attention to the fact that only the extremely popular paintings, advertised on the map of the museum they were handed upon entering, had their meanings added to the informational plaques on their side, and he smiles even wider when Liam requests a miniature lecture on how conservation works. 

“I just don’t understand how some of these can sit under lights for hundreds and hundreds of years and still be in such fantastic condition.” 

It’s a huge topic, but Zayn does his best explaining how experts often have to come in to restore the works, and the compounds found in certain paints that allow them to stand the test of time. Hearing that chemistry has something to do with it sparks Liam’s interest even more. However, when Zayn mentions how forgery experts use Titanium as a marker for spotting fakes supposedly created before the middle of the twentieth century, Liam goes crazy asking other questions around counterfeit art and famous heists. Eventually, he calms down, opting to sit on one of the benches in the middle of a display room and take a break from walking. 

They’re sat in front of an abstract piece, a canvas full of muted blues, light purples, and striking black shapes flowing in between. As Zayn talks about why certain paintings have benches in front of them and why others don’t (“because they have more people wanting to look at them?” “no, because you should take your time appreciating it from afar to gain an opinion”), he grants himself the chance to admire Liam’s profile much like earlier, except this time, the lighting’s extremely bright. This close, Zayn can get lost in the woodsy aroma that he’s starting to become dependent on for comfort. Having left the flat hours ago, it’s faint, but that doesn’t make it any less difficult for Zayn to sniff out. Liam’s sharp jawline softens when the man scratches at it, his eyes squinting in concentration as he tries to make out what he thinks the painting is of, if not just random colours and shapes. And for the second time that day, Zayn holds himself back from turning Liam’s face towards him for a kiss. Which is a lot more difficult to do when the scientist pushes his glasses up and blurts out, “is it a screaming snake?”. “No Liam, it’s a figure sitting in a chair.” “I don’t believe you. What’s it called?” “Seated Figure.” 

Exiting the museum, it dawns on Zayn how not once, in the three hours they were inside, did he think about smoking. He wasn’t even sure if his hands had stopped with their fidgeting because of Liam’s never letting them go to give him the opportunity to check. Being aware of his temporary achievement brings Zayn a sense of empowerment, like he could continue walking down the cold London sidewalks without the need to look out for triggers up ahead; he could take them. Before the thrill wears off, maybe he’ll try it. 

“A comic shop!” 

Zayn gets yanked back down to reality when Liam catches a glimpse of a store peeping out from a narrow side street. 

Rotating his shoulder as they step in, Zayn takes a look around at what they’re working with. 

At least ten different aisles stretch back to the far wall of the store, the edges lined with figurines and other collectible items that were extensions of the worlds found within the thin books spread throughout. It’s when his eyes stop at Liam posing next to a Superman cardboard cutout, hands on his hips, chin jutted out with importance, that Zayn knows they’re going to be there a while. 

In the back corner of the shop is where the two spend the good part of the evening, leaned up against each other on a sofa, while they read whichever comic randomly sticks out to them as they pass along the shelves. More than once Zayn finds himself nodding off, book in hand. His head bobs and lands on Liam’s shoulder, to be jolted awake. 

“You can take a nap,” Liam whispers after the third time it happens and Zayn takes his glasses off to rub a hand over his face. “We’ve still got another hour before we need to meet the lads for dinner, and another six before midnight.” 

Zayn’s body, the one that hasn’t had a full nights sleep since the patch on his left arm showed up, urges for him to accept the offer, but the gentlemanly side of him says that falling asleep on your date is quite possibly the rudest thing on planet earth. But when Liam’s patting his shoulder and holding out his hand to take Zayn’s glasses from him, the older man can’t say no. And he’s glad he didn’t, because when he’s tousled awake an hour later, he feels like a new person. 

“Just wanna buy the next few in this series, and then we can go eat,” Liam says as he stretches. 

As if on cue, Zayn’s stomach growls, his newfound appetite not something that he expected to show up so aggressively after cutting out cigarettes. In the past, he’d never dream of eating a whole plate of chicken alfredo, but that night, not only did he finish the entire serving, he had enough room for a side salad. And with his stomach nowhere near empty, he didn’t feel as worried when Niall flags down the barman for their fourth round of shots later on. 

“Are you close to being drunk?” Zayn nearly shouts into Liam’s ear, the music and chatter filling the Primrose Hill pub not giving him the option of speaking at a normal level. 

“What makes you think that I am?” 

“You spilled your water all over the table. And Louis.” 

Both look over at the stocky man desperately trying to clean his jeans so it doesn’t look like he just pissed himself. He’s only standing on the other side of their drinks table, but when he catches Liam’s eye, he draws a straight line over his neck to signal his anger. 

“I’m just clumsy sometimes,” Liam replies, turning away from the crime scene. “I’ve been pacing myself. ‘M not gonna get drunk.” 

“You sound like you’ve scheduled this ahead of time,” Zayn jokes. 

“I want to remember tonight.” 

“So we’re not going to have a repeat of last year’s New Year’s Eve Liam?” Niall asks in disappointment as he comes up to the table with five shots of some clear liquid that Zayn knows better than to question before it enters his mouth. 

“No,” the researcher answers quickly. 

“That’s a shame,” Harry says while handing Louis over a fresh pile of napkins to dab himself with. “I was hoping that with Zayn here, you might let yourself go and we’d get another rendition of drunken show tunes on the way home later.” 

“Sorry to let you down.” Reaching for his new glass of water, Liam dares to see how much damage is still evident on Louis’ trousers. “Maybe I’ll go crazy for your birthday in February.” 

Zayn clears his throat sarcastically, “And what about mine?” 

“When’s yours?” Niall asks. 

“Couple weeks. The twelfth.” 

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” The shrill to Harry’s voice causes Zayn to pull a face in surprise. “We’ve gotta come up with something to do!” 

“No, no,” Zayn waves off. “Please, really, we don’t have to do anything.” 

“Of course we do,” Louis joins in. “Your first birthday with the crew. It’s gonna be big.” 

Zayn paid attention to the story Louis told about one of his students’ failed pranks and what he would’ve done differently if it were his. There was a great possibility that a party thrown by Louis could rival a three ring circus, and Zayn, well, Zayn didn’t know if he could handle that at age twenty-seven. 

“I’d be happy with just a big dinner, if it needs to be a spectacle,” he acquiesces. 

“It doesn’t _need_ to be anything.” 

“Hey, if the man wants it to be a spectacle Liam,” Niall interjects, “we’ll make it a spectacle. But first,” he holds up his shot glass to the center of the table. “I’d like to make a toast.” 

“It doesn’t need to be anything,” Liam repeats straight into Zayn’s ear, the warm air making it difficult for the older male to grab his own shot glass without knocking it over. 

“To the new year!” Niall exclaims, alcohol spilling over the rim of his glass when he raises it higher. 

“Brilliant speech mate.” 

Already borderline drunk, Niall merely smiles in Louis’ direction and ignores his sarcastic comment. “For 2020, I wish something good for all of us! For Louis, I hope you get that promotion to head of the Drama department.” 

“It’s only been two years since I’ve been asking for it,” the male mumbles, having given up on wiping himself off and instead, using his right hand to raise up his shot. 

“Harry, this year’s gonna be the year! You’re gonna get on that TV show of yours and smash it! And I expect a huge fuckin’ ice cream cake when you do!” 

In the blink of an eye, Harry goes from confidently determined, to petrified. “I haven’t ever made an ice cream cake. Lou,” he mutters helplessly, “I haven’t practiced making an ice cream cake!” 

“Way to go Niall,” Louis grumbles. “You’ve just sent the boy into a panic.” 

Sure enough, Zayn watches on as Harry puts down his shot, scrambles to take out his phone and furiously starts typing away. But his head swivels back to Niall when he’s on to, “Liam!” 

“It’s gonna be 2020, so maybe you’ll be inspired and finally get laser eye surgery so you don’t have to go runnin’ around wearin’ them goggles every match we play.” 

“For the last time,” Liam moans, “my vision can’t be corrected to perfect. We’ve gone over this before.” 

“It’s gonna be 2020,” Niall reiterates, “listen to how futuristic that sounds. Anything’s possible this year.” 

While Zayn enjoys drunk Niall and his upbeat well wishes, laughs when he steals Liam’s glasses and puts them on himself, he dreads thinking up what’s going to be said about him next. 

“For our new mate Zayn,” a lazy arm gets thrown around Zayn’s shoulders, the teacher watching out for the remainder of Niall’s shot to remain in its glass, “I wish that he stays sober and comes with me to at least one Derby game this season so he can see what a real football team looks like.” 

“I’m not sober,” Zayn remarks, clinking their glasses together to prove his point. 

“Nah, with your smoking.” Waving around his shot as he tries to think up a better explanation, loses Niall even more of his drink. “What do you call that if you’re not goin’ sober?” 

“Don’t really think there’s a name for it,” Zayn surmises, “but you should really probably wrap this up if you intend to throw back anything other than air.” 

“Right, and for me!” Niall’s glass gets lifted one last time with gusto. “To get laid tonight, and not have to settle for the room in between the four of ya’s. Because you know how you-” 

“Alright!” Louis jumps in, bumping Harry to go along with the forced enthusiasm that he’s projecting. “To 2020!” 

Zayn’s in a near chokehold when Niall leans forward to haphazardly clink his glass around with the others’, but he keeps it together enough to do the same before learning that the alcohol in his glass was citrus vodka. 

“Fuck, you were right Zayn. Hardly had anything in that.” Pointing around the table, Niall blinks heavily to bring the room into focus, realizing that he may be drunk, but the glasses that still sit on his nose are the reason for the blurry vision he’s currently suffering from. Liam reaches over to take them from him at the same time as Zayn’s headlock is released. “Who wants another round?” 

“If you’re buying,” Louis prefaces, “I think Harry needs one.” 

Now that they’re out of celebration mode, the baker’s back to scouring his phone for, what Zayn can only assume, is a guide to ice cream cakes. 

“Which means you need one,” Niall thinks out loud. “Liam’s being a wanker. Zayn? My sober mate Zayn, you need another shot.” Two pats are administered to Zayn’s shoulder, “I’ll get you another shot.” 

“I don’t!” 

But the man’s already lost in the throngs of people occupying the pub to hear Zayn’s shout. 

“If you get drunk, I’ll take care of you,” Liam pledges. 

“If you’re not, then I’m not.” With Louis and Harry in their own world, hovered over the latter’s mobile, Zayn’s not worried about being eavesdropped on. “As much as I’d like to make a fool of myself on my first outing with the group, I think I’ll wait until my birthday.” 

At his side, Liam pulls away from their conversation enough to show Zayn how delighted he is by the possibility of getting to see a drunk Zayn in the near future. His eyes crinkle, as they usually do any time he stares at Zayn like he’s just told him the sweetest notion, rather than plain nonsense. Yeah, staying ‘sober’, as Niall likes to put it, is pretty high on Zayn’s 2020 resolutions list, but so is claiming this smile as his own. Even if that means exaggerating his sour facial expressions when he takes the shot of cheap tequila that Niall brings back, or the wildly unnecessary swinging of their conjoined hands that he continues the entire trek up the nearby knoll that gives Primrose Hill its name. 

“How much time do we have left?” Harry asks, doing his own fair share of pulling his partner up the lengthy incline. 

“When we left Niall at the pub with that girl, we had ten minutes,” Liam replies. “So probably around five now.” 

If the hill wasn’t so high, and the ground wasn’t so slippery from the most recent rain shower, Zayn would pull out his phone and double check the precious countdown, but he’s far too worried that he’s going to vear off the eroded asphalt that winds up the ridge and into a muddy patch of grass, to remove his eyes from the path. 

“Half of London’s up here,” Louis says, slightly out of breath. “We’d hear if we needed to run.” 

He’s right. With people of all ages crowding the hillside, it’s a miracle they’re even able to keep a steady pace walking upwards. 

“When you lived in London, did you ever come up here to watch the fireworks?” 

Briefly, Zayn glances to his right where Liam’s still got his head down, watching his steps. “No, the uni I went to from undergrad to PhD, Courtauld, it’s in Somerset House on the Thames.” 

“You little shit,” Louis snips. “You were practically right across the river from The Eye.” 

“Yeah, that’s,” Zayn chuckles awkwardly, “that’s what I was getting at. We sort of had front row seats to the fireworks every year from a few of the seminar rooms.” 

“Every year!” A friendly punch lands on Zayn’s upper arm from Louis. “You’re a fucking three tier alumni to a building with the best seats in the fucking _city_ , to one of the most famous New Year’s Eve countdowns in the _world_ , and we’re climbing up a goddamn _mountain_ to see it from a cute little _vantage point_?” 

“It’s romantic,” Harry argues. “We come here every year and you always say how perfect it is because we get to see the whole of the city lit up.” 

“Yeah, that was before we had connections to VIP pit seats.” 

“If it makes you feel any better,” Zayn starts, “my old student card won’t work on the doors anymore.” 

“Yeah, but if you spent that many years there, you know people whose do.” 

“It’s alright,” Harry coos. “Look, isn’t this just as good?” 

Thanks to the city’s last rain, the sky’s clear of any low hanging clouds, and for that, the lights of London can be seen for miles. No skyscrapers make up the capital’s skyline, although in the distance, Zayn can make out the circular ferris wheel that marks the fireworks’ launching point. Unfortunately there aren’t any stars that are visible overhead, the population too great for constellations to stand out. People might flank the small group of four from all sides, but for this view, it’s bearable. 

“Did you come here when you were in school?” Zayn asks Liam once their two mates start a small conversation on their own. 

“I did one year, but my group of friends and I usually just stuck to flat parties.” 

It’s then that Zayn wonders where his uni friends were, the ones he swore to visit soon and swapped for the couple to his left side and the man pressed against his right. Niall too, but after he found a redhead eyeing him from the corner of the pub, there was no use including him in any plans after the countdown. 

Out of nowhere, Liam starts tugging at Zayn’s hand, pulling him away from Harry and Louis. 

“What’re you doing?” 

Before he hears or sees the reason why, he smells it - smoke. 

“Liam,” he pulls back on the man’s hand to get him to stop. “There are too many people here. You’re not going to be able to find a place that’s smoke free. We’re gonna lose Harry and Louis.” 

“It’s ok, they’re distracted by each other,” Liam dismisses. “Come on.” 

Realizing it’s not a battle worth fighting, Zayn stays behind Liam like his shadow as they maneuver their way through the crowd, eventually stopping near a clearing with more toddler prams than humans. 

“Perfect,” Liam smiles right before someone in the throng of people yells, “sixty!” 

He won’t admit it out loud, but the spot they’re currently in, is actually a hell of a lot better than where they were a minute prior. Liam’s impetuousness wins this round. 

“Isn’t it weird how counting down can give you butterflies?” The younger man wonders aloud. “It’s just another stroke of midnight, you know? It’ll happen tomorrow, but this one always makes my heart race.” 

With their hands still intertwined, Zayn hopes that Liam can’t feel the high speed his heartbeat’s currently at. It feels like its rate is being determined by how fast the wings in his stomach are fluttering; they’re attached to hummingbirds, not butterflies. Some who have nestled there from the anxiety that countdowns bring, and others who know what comes at zero. 

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Zayn answers back, in what he prays is an even voice and not one that gives way to the distress that’s just surfaced based on one question. 

How does one kiss someone else who also wears glasses? 

“Thirty!” 

Nervously, like he’s a teenager about to go in for the first time, Zayn steals a quick glance at Liam to map it all out. 

_His thick frames stick out more than my thin ones, but that won’t account for much saved space. Our lenses are still going to bump. But if I take mine off, will his press into my eyelids? How the fuck have I never kissed another person who wears glasses?_

“Twenty!” 

_Should I ask him to take his off too or would that ruin the moment? What am I saying? Of course that would ruin the moment. Is this what my exes felt like when they had to kiss me?_

“Ten!” 

_Fuck, ok, just take yours off and go with the flow._

“Nine!” 

_He’s nice. He’ll laugh it off if it’s a disaster._

“Eight!” 

Staring at the outstretched city below, makes Zayn feel small. As if he’s not only surrounded by the chants of London, but the whole world. 

“Seven!” 

Hidden, built up friction finally starts to give way to invisible sparks. 

“Six!” 

Just barely, Zayn can make out his own voice among the rest, though he finds Liam’s an easy melody to pinpoint. “Five. Four. Three. Two.” 

In the distance, fireworks explode. Bright red and white circles light up the night sky, loud cracks following their flashy performance. 

Zayn’s right hand loses its warmth at the same time as the number “one” narrowly leaves his lips. 

“Happy New Year!” Liam shouts, hands cupped around his mouth, as if the added help will make his sentiment travel any farther, or stand out any greater, in their current location. 

Even with the commotion going on around them, signaling that there’s no need for the hummingbirds to be zipping around in Zayn’s body, he still feels them. Their wings propel the man’s heart rate to new heights when Liam turns to look at him with this goofy smile on his face, like he’s high on life. Or high on his own winged creatures, Zayn’s not sure. 

He imagines looking like a deer caught in the headlights, taking far too much time replaying his plan of attack. So, before the moment’s completely lost, Zayn takes off his glasses, and leans forward. 

When their lips meet, he doesn’t feel any sort of glass or metal pushing back on his face. Whatever angle he’s at, he’ll have to memorize, because it seems to be the winning one. 

The kiss is long, but not in any way greedy. Perhaps due to Zayn wanting to savor the feeling of Liam’s hand that’s pressed against his hip, or because he’s craved this all day - in the dark, and in the light - and now he’s finally getting to do it while a flurry of colours continue to erupt in the background. He deserves this, which is why when Liam pulls away, Zayn only uses the break to take a hit of dopamine from the male’s cologne, before melding them back together. 

“So you’ve been thinking about that too?” 

Liam’s voice is just above a whisper, and when it occurs to Zayn their foreheads are resting against one another’s, he pulls his away. The other’s staring at him with that same lopsided smile that got them here, but his eyes are working hard to focus; Zayn can tell by the way he blinks with purpose, rather than necessity. He’s not wearing his glasses. 

“Can you see me alright?” 

An abundance of booming noises still fill the air as Liam continues to strain himself. “You’re fuzzy. I can’t make out the details of your face, but I can see where your beard starts and ends.” 

That’s enough for Zayn to know that his farsightedness is far superior to Liam’s, the colour and sharpness of the man’s features the only real inaccuracies he struggles with. But that doesn’t mean he likes having to use his substandard vision on its own. Yet he’s not being given the chance to return his glasses to their rightful place, Liam’s hand is obstructing that path as it traces along the curved line where Zayn’s beard meets his bare cheek. 

“But I’ve spent enough time with you to not need my glasses,” Liam continues. “I’ve memorized all the details that make you, you.” 

Close to Zayn’s lips Liam’s fingers brush, dancing over his mustache and then continuing on to the other half of the neatly-trimmed bristles. While he’s being examined, the older man studies Liam’s face, free of any obstructions, and wishes that they were back at his old uni stomping grounds so that the specks of colour raining down, could paint a picture along Liam’s cheekbones. 

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Zayn teases, though neither of his hands make a move from where they are at his sides to go along with the joke. 

“One.” 

Liam’s breath ghosts over Zayn’s lips before they’re capturing them with his own. 

From then on, it’s as if a seal has been broken. The two sneaking small kisses to the cheek all night or the backs of their hands that don’t ever seem to part. Zayn’s still too nervous to ask if they should devise a signal for when one wants to _actually_ kiss the other so they can time taking their glasses off. It took one close call for Zayn to realize that, unless there’s some sort of trick to it that he’s just not privy to yet, lip to lip kissing is not possible without risking scratched lenses. They do get one real kiss on the way up the lift to their rented flat, each tasting of kebabs from their late night/early morning meal, but it’s by surprise when Zayn took off his glasses to clean, Liam having swooped in to take advantage of the moment. 

“Are you sure we killed enough time?” Zayn asks as he waits outside the flat door while Liam pulls out his set of keys. “I don’t want to walk into something I’m not going to be able to unsee or unhear every Sunday Harry opens his mouth.” 

“Louis asked for two hours, we gave them three. I didn’t get to have a nap like you did. I’m a walking zombie right now.” 

The tumble of the lock clicks into place, Liam pushing the door open cautiously despite his words of confidence that neither are about to be scarred. 

Silence. 

“You go in first,” Zayn whisperers. 

Rolling his eyes, Liam pulls his key out of the door and steps through. “You’re being dramatic. I’ll say something if they’re still going at it.” 

Out of habit, Zayn kicks his shoes off at the front door, padding softly through the flat to Liam’s room where he left his bag earlier. His guard drops when he’s made it down the hallway without hearing anything other than Liam’s footsteps mixing in with his own. 

“Did you hear back from Niall?” He asks, as his eyes adjust to the bright light that the other’s just switched on. 

“My phone died twenty minutes ago, but I’m sure he’s fine. He’s got all our numbers in case he needed a cab here or something. I’ll call him when we wake up.” 

_We_. 

Those pesky hummingbird’s come back at the same time as Zayn locates his small duffle bag in the corner of the room. There has to be an easy dance for them to do, but all the confidence that Zayn had built throughout the day dissipates as he watches Liam rummage through his own bag that lays on the Queen sized bed. 

“I know we joked about it before, but I think that was our real first date.” At the sound of Zayn’s voice, Liam’s head picks up from where he’s pulling out a pair of grey sweats. “And it was a pretty memorable one.” 

A quick tug to his bowtie releases Liam of any constriction as the knot comes undone and the material falls flat against his shirt. Instead of pulling it out from under his collar, Liam keeps it there. If he simply rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, Zayn’s not sure he’d be able to take Niall’s room like he intends to. 

“You see why I wanted to remember this night then,” Liam grins, stepping away from his bag and in the direction of Zayn and his. 

“I do, yeah.” 

“I think it’s the longest one I’ve ever gone on.” 

Zayn doesn’t bother to card through his history of first dates, he merely nods along in agreement. “I don’t think another could beat it either. We’re at like, what? Over twelve hours now?” 

Liam’s head sways side to side in lazy consideration, his steps coming to a halt once he’s hovering in Zayn’s space. “Something like that. But,” he takes Zayn’s right hand in his, “I’m not ready for it to end.” Surely Liam can hear the hummingbird’s buzzing loudly by now. “Stay here with me.” 

On the sidewalk below, those looking to milk the night for all that it’s worth make themselves known. Zayn’s eyes dart to the window at the muffled laughter, using it as an excuse to look away from Liam’s’ that are too intense to hold. 

“I don’t have sex on the first date,” he includes, most likely sensing Zayn’s discontent. “Or second.” 

The humourous addition wins back Zayn’s attention. “If I stay, it’s on one condition.” 

“What’s that?” 

“That you don’t get angry with me if I toss and turn all night.” How Liam’s expression falls into one of concern, the charm to his gaze switching to worry, brings Zayn a twinge of guilt, but he needs to put the disclaimer out there so Liam knows what he’s getting himself into. “The Internet says insomnia’s a common side effect of quitting.” 

“But you slept easily when we were at the comic shop earlier,” Liam points out. 

Zayn needs to make sure he chooses his words carefully, or risk scaring the other man away. For him, it’s a terrifying thing to come to terms with - how someone as new as this could potentially hold the key to life altering success; he didn’t want to put that weight on Liam. Not when acting selflessly came so easy to the younger man. He doesn’t deserve that burden. 

“And I was grateful that you let me take advantage of that.” 

Because he’s already a handful of centimeters taller than Zayn, placing a kiss on his forehead is an easy thing for Liam to do without their specs getting in the way. “Won’t say a word even if you steal all the covers,” he swears. “I’m gonna go get the taste of kofta out of my mouth and brush my teeth. I’ll be right back.” 

For the sake of his dental hygiene, as well as a courtesy to Liam, Zayn should probably do the same, but taming his resident hummingbirds wins the bid on earning his concentration. Which he’s going to have to learn is a lost cause, because as soon as Liam’s sliding into bed, cradling Zayn’s body against his own with a tight grip, the tiny wings are back in motion. 

NEETFIF 

No day has ever begun well for Zayn when a car alarm acts as his wakeup call. Then again, when it has, his bleary eyes have never been met with a pair of warm maple brown staring back at him, there to soothe the upset. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey,” Zayn croaks back, eyes still finding it difficult to stay open for longer than a few seconds at a time. 

“You can go back to sleep,” Liam reassures him gently. “Harry’s not done with breakfast yet. I’ll wake you when he is.” 

Any extra time snoozing sounds more than appealing, but now that he can hear, more than see, how awake Liam is, Zayn finds it rude to leave him alone for any longer than he already has. 

“What time is it?” He asks, sitting up and rubbing his eyes in the process. 

“About ten. You got around seven hours.” 

“And you?” 

“I’ve only been awake for half an hour. And before you ask, no, it has nothing to do with you being restless. You didn’t wake me up once.” 

With his glasses back on, Zayn can now see how the incoming sunlight from the room’s only window, brings a subtle glow to the skin that’s not covered by Liam’s red t-shirt. “I didn’t?” 

“No, I woke up because of the bloody car alarm.” Liam’s sternest glare gets tossed to the drape-less window. “Thing’s been going on and off for ages.” 

The more Zayn starts to come to, the more he realizes how awful he must look. He can feel some of his quiff resting flat along his forehead without needing to touch it, which only means that the rest of the black strands probably look like a disheveled nest. 

“You look fine,” Liam laughs when he’s done scolding the noise machine with his eyes and sees the desperate strokes Zayn’s giving to his hair. 

“You’re a liar.” 

“I’m not.” Pulling Zayn’s hand away from his head, allows Liam to bring it to his lips. “You look lovely.” 

“Now I know you’re **definitely** a liar.” 

Zayn undoes their fingers and gives his hair a final runthrough, biting his tongue from letting Liam know just how innocently handsome _he_ looks this early in the morning because it’s not honestly not fair. That, and to keep his arsenal of compliments from emptying too soon into whatever this journey is they’re about to go on together. 

“When you decide to accept what I have to say as truth, then let me know,” Liam says nonchalantly, picking up his phone that got dropped to his lap when Zayn began to stir. “In the meantime, I’ll go back to reading my emails. Or maybe that’s a lie, and I’m reading yours.” 

Mischief in Liam’s eyes, and a swift glance to the black mobile in the man’s causes Zayn to panic, but once he sees that there’s still a matching phone on his side table, charging, he calms down. 

“Very funny,” he deadpans, slinking back down into the covers to get comfortable yet again, since the blasted car alarm has decided to take a break from screeching. 

“Actually, I was just about to see what time that one modern museum- you know, the one you told me I’d like? What time it opens.” 

“It’s New Year’s Day,” Zayn replies following a small yawn, “nothing in the city’s going to be open. Especially not museums.” 

“Do you reckon the cinemas will be?” 

“Check. If not, we’re going to be flatbound with only cable, and the comics you bought yesterday as our form of entertainment.” 

At the same time, both men turn to stare at each other, a sly smile coming over Liam’s lips as he puts down his phone, and lifts his glasses up to give Zayn the first kiss of the day. 

NEETXIS 

The start of the new decade has been nothing but great. 

How could it not be when its first day consisted of lazing around, getting lost in fictional worlds, and its third was spent celebrating fourteen days “sober”. Beyond his incessant headaches and occasional bouts of irritation that came as one of its side effects, what did Zayn have to complain about? There was the whole having to go back to work thing that hit him with a dose of reality, but with his lectures ready to go for the next term, even Zayn’s hours spent in his office were enjoyable writing up his latest da Vinci commentary. 

Thanks to the music, as well as the mechanical engineering department going on extended holiday leave, Zayn only had to pop in once to the school of geography in order to see what new information on Kenya’s flooding the researchers had to share with him. Dropping by Radcliffe Hospital’s research lab was a much more frequent thing, but that’s strictly due to the daily updates Liam’s project affords him. His recurring visits have nothing to do with the scientist responsible for said briefings at all. But if Liam wants to walk around the hospital with coffee before they discuss how much larger the patches of heart tissue have grown, or whisk him away for a date night after doing so, then who’s Zayn to say no? 

Even his birthday was a great time, void of any crazy shenanigans that he worried might have greeted him at Louis and Harry’s front door when he showed up for the party they insisted on throwing him. Now, did he have to grin and bare it when he opened two tickets to a Derby match that were clearly _for_ Niall rather than _from_ him? Yes, of course. And was he mildly disappointed when Harry made him an ice cream cake and not german chocolate like he hinted at when visiting the bakery a few days beforehand? Maybe. But irregardless of either, Zayn truly enjoyed having a new circle of friends care for him so much. Notably one, who gifted him a leather toothpick holder and a box of wooden sticks to go along with it. 

“I read that chewing on a toothpick engages your mouth in the same way that it’s used to you giving it a cigarette to pull from,” Liam told him. “It was a good article. Said you could even soak them in whiskey or essential oils if you wanted a little taste to it.” 

“Switch smoking for alcohol,” Louis snarked. “Real good thinking Liam.” 

Zayn may have bit back a smirk at the jab, but that’s only because he didn’t want to hurt Liam’s feelings. He adored the leather pouch, along with the man who gave it to him. And while he didn’t think it was the best idea to have his breath smelling of Fireball in the workplace, the toothpicks by themselves were incredibly effective at busying his mouth with a movement other than sucking on a cigarette filter. Helped him make it to sober benchmark week three, too. 

For reaching such a milestone, his Mum had one of the local florists deliver a succulent to his office. “I know how you hate flowers because you can never manage to keep them alive, but this is easy; just water it once a week and it’ll love you. I’m just so proud of you, that I wanted to get you a little something.” Which Zayn’s grateful for and all, but from the moment he answered her phone call and they got past the pleasantries, he could hear it in her voice what she really wanted to talk about. “So how’s that boyfriend of yours been? Still treating you well?” 

He corrected her right off the bat, told her that Liam’s doing good, but that they just started dating, they’re not boyfriends just yet. Except, when he’s sitting next to Harry a couple days later, eyes glued on the bright green penny that covers Liam’s black tee, his lips rubbing around a toothpick, Zayn wondered what would be so bad if they were? For the remainder of the match, he pretended to listen to Harry go on about his plan to submit his Bake Off audition tape that week, while mulling over his options on how to bring up the topic to Liam when they’re inevitably laying on top of each other watching Ironman. 

“My Mum called me the other day,” he mentioned when Liam was making them both a cup of tea in between films. 

“Yeah? What’d she say?” 

“Just wanted to congratulate me on making it another week sober.” 

“Does she use that term too now?” 

“No, no,” Zayn chuckled. “That was me paraphrasing.” He watched as his finished mug was handed over, “She uh, asked how my boyfriend was doing too.” 

Behind his own drink, Liam raised his eyebrows inquisitively, “Mhmm. And what’d you tell her?” 

“That he was doing good.” 

It took Liam all of three seconds to put down his mug, take off his fogged up glasses, and pull Zayn in from across the breakfast bar to land a kiss. 

That was yesterday. And while he expected to come down from cloud nine when he woke up, Zayn’s New Year just kept getting better. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks when he spots Liam swimming upstream in his first emptying lecture of the term. 

“I was on my way to the lab when I got the best email on earth,” the man replies once he’s free from the masses and in front of the podium Zayn’s gathering papers from, a huge smile plastered across his face. “I was going to call, but I couldn’t wait. I had to come find you and tell you about it in person.” 

Zayn stops what he’s doing, “Something happened with the samples?” 

“No!” Despite no one else being in the room, Liam still checks to make sure he hasn’t been too loud. “I mean, they’re doing great, I’m going to set up some tests to run on them soon. This is something even better.” 

“Better than your research?” 

Liam’s practically shaking with excitement, but Zayn can’t help how skeptical he sounds. Besides getting a visit from Bruce Wayne himself, he can’t think of anything the other would consider more significant than cardiology experimentation. 

“I get to go into heart surgery on Friday!” 

Instantly, Zayn’s stomach drops. “W-what?” 

“Someone’s getting a scheduled heart transplant at the hospital on Friday, and I got invited to stand in on it,” Liam explains, eyes still bright with exhilaration, completely blinded to Zayn’s panic. 

Once the teacher can feel the colour come back to his cheeks, he continues gathering his lecture material from the stand. “Next time,” he grumbles, “lead with that.” 

“I’ve never gotten the chance to see one in person,” Liam sings, “only in videos.” 

Zayn’s happy for his boyfriend now that he knows he’s not going to be the one going under the knife, but he really hopes Liam doesn’t start to go into detail, because he knows the words associated with ‘heart transplant surgery’ aren’t going to go over well with his nervous system. 

“Who chose you?” 

“Dr. Twicken,” Liam responds, like Zayn should think it to be anyone else. “It’s basically a late Christmas present.” 

How anyone can think of slicing into a human body as a belated gift from Santa, is beyond Zayn, but he creases his brow for another reason. “Still not your favourite though, right?” 

Face softening, Liam takes a few steps forward to push himself up against Zayn’s slender body. “No, yours is still number one.” 

After the older man’s been placated by a kiss to the cheek, he lets his fingers graze over the buttons of Liam’s navy blue dress shirt. “Is this going to impact your research at all?” 

“Only make me more determined to get it right,” Liam replies steadfastly. “This surgery is going to take three to four hours, but some take upwards of eight. Imagine when all that man’s going to need to do is go under for an hour to place my tissue graft?” 

“You’re changing the world.” 

At Zayn’s fondness, Liam ducks his head. “Almost. Only one more week and then I’ll be able to test the samples’ functionality to say for sure.” 

“And I’ll be right there to tell you I told you so,” Zayn reassures him, tugging on an opening in between buttons on Liam’s shirt. “And to congratulate you.” 

“Oh yeah?” Sensing the mood change, Liam pushes himself even closer to the other. “What’s that consist of?” 

“Save the world first, and then you’ll find out.” With a swift wink and pat to Liam’s chest, Zayn turns back to his stand. “I’ve gotta pack all this up, come on.” 

“And I’ve really got to catch the bus,” Liam gets out right before he pulls Zayn back to him by his wrist. “But I’ll talk to you later.” 

Anticipating the kiss he’s being given allows Zayn the chance to lift his glasses up prior to their lips meeting. 

“Have a good day!” Liam calls behind him after they’ve parted and he’s picked up his backpack, his insistence on sending Zayn a cheesy smile nearly causing him to run into a student on the way out. 

Out of view, Liam’s positivity still keeps Zayn warm. Perhaps the feeling will fade with time and reveal itself to be nothing more than a byproduct of a new relationship. Until then, he plans on milking it for all that it is. 

But life always had a way of reminding Zayn that good things come at a price, even when that cost isn’t at his own expense. And especially when he least expects it. 

NEETNEVES 

Visiting the hospital for the first time seems like a lifetime ago to Zayn. The nerves that had worried him into a state of autopilot, nothing but a mere memory. He recalls how out of place he felt, and how he didn’t think that feeling would ever go away, no matter how many times he swiped his fancy keycard at any door that required it. But now, two months later, Zayn is able to walk through the front doors of the West entrance with his head held high and a steady heart rate. Gone is the anxiety of the unknown, in its place an air of contentment. As he rides the lift down to subfloor one, Zayn even dares to smile at the familiar scent of disinfectant; his brain no longer associate it with needles or the plague. One day, the smell just started to blend together with Liam’s cologne. The same can be said for when he felt at ease enough to visit the research lab alone without Liam and work on his own project until the man showed up, but he’d gotten there too. It’s what he’d intended on doing today while he waited for Liam to get out of his beloved heart surgery, but those plans are quickly erased when he sees a figure hunched over itself in the corner work space. 

As he passes the wall of glass that looks into the area where the lab’s experiments live, Zayn doesn’t bother to check who’s inside, or if anyone is at all, he’s got tunnel vision. Eyebrows bunch together in confusion when closer steps show a pair of familiar glasses discarded on the wooden table next to the body. 

“I thought you’d still be in surgery for another hour or two.” 

Liam startles from the unexpected voice, lifting his head up from where it was resting against the desk, cradled between hands that gripped the hair at the nape of his neck; they’re wiping at his eyes now. Or so it seems. It’s hard to tell, he’s still facing the wall. 

“Liam?” 

The man’s scrambling to hide something, that much Zayn can figure out when he’s only a couple meters away and Liam’s reaching for his glasses quickly. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” 

The phrase just rolls off Zayn’s lips, but once he’s almost literally thrown his bag into his empty seat and put himself in a position at Liam’s side where he can’t be ignored, he sees just how appropriate the question is. 

Liam’s eyes are red, their thin veins standing out like bloody rivers, rims a solid pink. His lashes are wet, however, by the way some are clumped together and not evenly fanned out, Zayn can tell he’s been at this for a while. In a certain light, the tracks that his tears have made down his cheeks and into his short stubble are visible, but there’s no sign of a fresh set ready to spill. Liam’s quick blinking and avoidant eye-contact are likely to blame for that though, since he can’t hide the dejection that he’s still clearly reeling in. 

“Nothing,” he says after sniffling deeply to clear his nose, its rosy colour a precursor to becoming chapped. 

“Bullocks,” Zayn retorts sharply as he scans Liam’s body for any sign that he’s physically hurt. “What’s going on?” 

In his desperation for answers, Zayn starts to look away from Liam’s body and around his designated work area for any hints. Notebooks are stacked in their usual piles, Liam’s aluminum water bottle sits in the middle of the table he and Zayn usually share, the computer that the male typically forgoes his laptop to work on is shut off, which frustrates him for being unable to provide any context clues. Zayn’s eyes move over to the male’s backpack that’s hanging on the wall to the side of them, a white lab coat dangling from the hook’s second notch. His stomach drops. 

From where he’s standing, it’s impossible to see Liam’s tissue samples, but that doesn’t stop Zayn from trying. On his tip-toes he does a small dance, head bobbing as he wildly searches for the familiar containers in a sea of beakers and microscopes. 

“They’re fine.” 

After speaking, Liam clears his throat, both sounds bringing Zayn’s vision back down to the man sitting in front of him. A small ray of light breaks through the clouds, but it’s not enough. 

“You gotta help me out here babe,” Zayn pleads as he pulls around his chair, hopeful that equaling their heights out will create a more genial atmosphere and get Liam to open up. But he’s not quite sure it’s working, since the hands in front of him only stop their small trembles when they’re taken into his own. “Please, tell me why you’re crying.” 

Bringing attention to his watery eyes doesn’t bode well with Liam’s masculinity. He nearly pulls away from the bubble Zayn’s created for them in order to straighten out his posture and give off the illusion that he was only momentarily thrown off his game, but Zayn tightens his grip. 

While he hasn’t fully caved in to his boyfriend’s benevolence just yet, Liam does stop trying to avoid the subject altogether. “The surgery didn’t go as planned.” 

From a place of selfishness, one that Zayn’s programmed to be centered around Liam’s well-being, comes easy breathing. It’s a minimal improvement to his current state, but Zayn still holds out for the deconstruction of what ‘didn’t go as planned’ entailed. 

“The man died. I watched him die.” 

Warm air flows in from the ducts overhead. From the opening of one hangs a string, and at the end of it, a paperclip - remnants of where decorations once hung in celebration of a recent discovery made by one of the lab’s other researchers. Oddly, the high pitched ‘din, din, din’ of metal hitting metal acts as a grounding mechanism for Zayn, rather than a source of annoyance. It reminds him to not become so overconsumed by the thought of death like Liam had. Life doesn’t stop for anyone; not unless it’s your own. 

As he tries to come up with something worth saying, Zayn’s teeth catch his bottom lip. It isn’t until he brings his eyes down from the ceiling that he realizes that in their hold, both of his thumbs are gently working their way back and forth over Liam’s pointer fingers. 

Beyond the bloody images that are a given, he wonders what’s going through Liam’s head. What it’s like to witness a soul leave its body. Was it different if the person was under anesthesia? Or did it not matter whether you had to watch the life be stolen from a person’s eyes? Would an eerie blanket of coldness envelope the room either way? Zayn can imagine that sort of thing stays seared in your brain for life, that even if you try and forget it, the impact never fades. 

It’s weak, Zayn’s “I’m sorry”, pitiful really, and he wishes that he could give some profound speech to instill confidence in Liam that everything would be alright. That he needs to go through the necessary phases of shock and everything will sort itself out. But Zayn can’t. No clever idioms or words of comfort are coming to him, so he leaves it at that. Squeezes Liam’s hands tightly and waits to see what else the other’s willing to share. 

“The bioengineers are right,” is what breaks the silence. “There’s insurmountable human error in the surgical sciences. The only way to eliminate as much of that as possible is technological intervention.” 

A small streak of anger cuts through Zayn’s sympathy. “You don’t believe that,” he insists. 

Liam’s jaw flexes as his teeth clench down, “Beliefs can change.” 

While that may be true, Zayn refuses to come to terms with how the other’s speaking about his passion. “What happened to having faith in natural science?” 

“That was before I got a taste of reality,” Liam says. “Even if you’re the country’s top surgeon, you can still kill a man.” 

“Ok.” Zayn’s nipping this before it gets out of hand, Liam’s trauma aside. “You’re making it out like he did it on purpose. Things happen, things that are flukes or that are out of our control. Top surgeons get to the top because of their successes.” He gives their hands another small squeeze, “You’re always the one telling me how amazing it is that raw intelligence managed to get science as far as it did before computers came into the picture.” 

“Well it is.” 

“I know it is,” Zayn replies, relieved at the lack of fight he’s met with. “And that brain of yours is going to prove that raw intelligence can _still_ be the reason behind breakthrough discoveries.” Because Liam’s lips barely twitch, Zayn smiles widely for the both of them. “Speaking of which, how are the little guys doing today?” 

“The same.” 

“But another .056 millimeters larger?” 

To Zayn’s dismay, his annoyingly positive voice and perfect recollection of the tissue’s average daily growth rate doesn’t do much to brighten Liam’s disposition. 

“Yeah.” 

“Do you still have work to do with them today?” 

“I…” Zayn watches as the man in front of him searches his brain for the answer, struggling to wade through the fog. “I don’t really know.” 

Liam’s uncertainty about such an easy question scares the older man. His eyes search Liam’s face for some sign that the man he’s fallen for, is inside. 

“Come on,” he says patting Liam’s thighs after separating their hands. “Let’s go to my place. I’ll order us a car.” 

“I can walk,” Liam mumbles. 

“Ok,” Zayn nods, easing his body forward from where it was leaning back to pull his phone out. “We’ll walk.” 

It may not have been Zayn’s first choice, but the fifteen minute stroll in the bitter cold breathes a little bit of life into Liam, and that’s enough for the lecturer to forget how satisfying leather seats would feel right now. It’s ironic though - how Liam’s legs move with purpose, one in front of the other, but his skin still looks so washed out. With the blue-ish grey filter around them, the sun penetrating the midday winter clouds from above, it’s hard to tell if the ashen colour that tints Liam’s cheeks is from overwhelming tension, or merely January acting like January. But when they finally reach Zayn’s one bedroom flat after making a quick stop to pick up lunch at the deli he’d raved about in the past, it’s clear that the pale shade isn’t from the weather. 

It isn’t Liam’s first time in Zayn’s second story flat, that was the night of his birthday when the other had wanted a space where he could give Zayn his second gift without needing to worry about prying ears waiting to scold him for the sound of his headboard banging against the wall. This is probably visit four or five, but it’s obvious by the way he stays close to Zayn when they walk through the front door, that Liam’s not as comfortable in the home as the teacher is in his. And that’s alright, Zayn understands how Naill and Liam’s flat being their post-football headquarters on Sunday’s can make that happen. The little two bedroom accommodation is perfectly situated in the town centre, while Zayn’s a part of the outskirts, quiet and peaceful. It’s his hope that that same suburban atmosphere that suits his personality, will lend itself well helping calm Liam’s current state of mind. 

Hardwood panels line the sitting room floor where Zayn guides the two of them, sandwiches in hand. Light floods in through the large bay window that overlooks the sidewalk and main street, but Zayn still turns the main fixture on to give them ample lighting. Liam takes a seat on the ground, back up against the couch, letting Zayn know that he’s chosen the cold floor because he “doesn’t want to get food all over the cushions”. While it’s not the most comfortable of places to eat, Zayn joins him, and scoots the coffee table up to their chests so they have a space to rest their food. 

Directly in front of them is an electric fireplace - one that Zayn hasn’t used much of since moving in. But the TV hanging above it, he has. Unlike Liam, he doesn’t have any fancy entertainment system loaded with films, only a heavily used PS4 and handful of games to go along with it. The internet exists, he could rent them whatever superhero film Liam’s heart desired, engage in their weekly marathon two days early, but he doesn’t. Not when his cable guide shows that the entire last series of Love Island’s about to start. Liam doesn’t need to watch a good versus evil fight on screen, he’s got enough of that in the real world. He needs something mindless, something that he can smile insultingly at. 

So they sit. Gawking at young adults acting like children, living out their early twenties in a manner that they’ll certainly regret in their early forties. Their empty takeaway bag gets filled with their rubbish by Zayn during an advert break somewhere through episode two, the older male grateful that the younger at least ate. 

During episode four, the coffee maker gets turned on. Alone in the kitchen, Zayn watches as clear water turns dark brown; in the background, he can hear the TV playing. The only reason he knows he’s not missing out on anything is because Liam’s yet to call his name - a signal that the adverts are over, the show’s back on. It’s the only word Liam’s properly said to him since they finished eating and Zayn had asked what he thought of the bodega from their new position on the sofa. “It was good, like you said.” From then on it’s been short sounds and hums of approval. “Do you think that guy’s all that handsome?” “Eh.” “She’s gonna go home, for sure.” “Mhmm.” “Why do people always think it’s a good idea to make others jealous?” Zayn didn’t even get a verbal utterance for that one, only a shoulder shrug. 

As the pot continues to fill, a text comes through. His Mum, asking for him to remind her if he’s to switch out the nicotine patches he’s been using for the next lower dosage tomorrow when he starts week five, or is it week six? Right away he lets her know that it’s neither, week seven. But before he loses her attention, he sends a second text asking for advice. How does he not treat Liam like a child, even though that’s what it seems like he needs? How does he make it apparent that he’s not belittling his method of coping, he’s just really worried? 

**Just be there for him. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I’m sure he appreciates your care.**

It’s the simplest of words that are always the wisest. 

**But stay away from caffeine. It won’t help his nerves.**

Zayn stares at the coffee machine that’s a quarter full. 

**Make him peppermint tea. Fresh if you have it. It’s calming.**

He’ll have to get fresh leaves tomorrow. For now, the green tea in his cupboard will have to do. 

“Zayn...” 

After being delivered his hot drink, a tiny crack appears in Liam’s tough exterior. The faint smile is only meant to be a thank you, Zayn understands that, but it’s _something_. Just like the delicate tracing of tattoos that Liam administers all throughout episode six after Zayn makes it clear he’s not going to let up on always maintaining some sort of physical contact. It’s his only way of ensuring that Liam’s aware he’s not alone. 

But those two moments are all Liam gives him until the sun goes down and Zayn tells him he’s staying for dinner. And overnight. He’s still too fragile for Zayn to feel comfortable letting him take care of himself. Except he doesn’t exactly word it that way, not now that he knows to watch out for hurting Liam’s pride. Instead, he puts it on himself, says that he doesn’t want to be lonely for the night now that Liam’s here. It awards him a curt, “I’ll stay then.” 

Episode eight goes without Zayn. He’s too busy whipping up a hearty chicken curry that he swears his Mum would approve of. She should, it’s her recipe after all. 

“So?” He asks, channeling as much of his mother’s sweetness as possible when they’re back down on the floor. “Does this make it to the top of your recommendation list?” 

“Yeah. It’s great.” Out of the corner of his eye, Liam must see Zayn’s halfhearted nod, because he asserts his thoughts a little bit more. “I mean it.” 

And the way his lips linger on Zayn’s cheek when he kisses him there, shows the older male how much he does mean it. It makes it easier for Zayn to swallow the exaggerated frustration at Liam’s lack of presence that his sobriety insists he feel. It’s possible the kiss is intended to stand for an apology as well. It’s Liam’s ironic way of saying ‘I’m sorry’ for how Zayn’s been talking to his shell for the past nine hours without actually speaking at all. On the other hand, maybe Zayn’s looking too much into it, and Liam’s faking the intimacy for the sake of keeping Zayn off his back for another hour or two. If it’s the latter, then it works. Zayn doesn’t ask much of him for the rest of the night, keeping his conversations lively, but one-sided, so the room doesn’t fall victim to distressed silence, and Liam can enjoy listening to his unforgiving commentary without feeling obliged to exert himself. But when he’s left Liam to a shower before they retreat to the bedroom later that night, and the water’s still running after twenty minutes, Zayn can’t help himself. 

After three knocks to the door: “Liam?” No answer. “Babe?” Nothing. 

It’s a risk, but when Zayn’s concern gets the best of him, he turns the handle and finds it unlocked. Slowly, he cranes his head into the steam filled room, seeing one of Liam’s upper arms and elbow sticking out from behind the curtain. He’d already announced his entrance, so when he steps forward to see why Liam hasn’t been responding, he feels zero guilt. “What’s-” 

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence, the shoulder that the arm’s attached to is shaking, and that’s all Zayn needs to see to start stripping his clothes off. 

Liam’s facing away from the curtain when Zayn pulls it back, head in his hands. The heels of his palms are pressed into his eyes, as if putting pressure on where his pain shows the most will ease it any. He’s got himself worked up so much that he doesn’t even flinch when Zayn steps into the bathtub with him. Which, at first Zayn thinks is because Liam’s out of touch with his surroundings, but when he turns the man around so that his back is against the cascading water and the almost silent cries aren’t being played off, he realizes that it’s not that at all. Liam’s just simply ready to give in. 

Zayn pulls him in by the back of his head, testing the temperature of the water to make sure that it’s still warm once Liam’s safely found the crook of Zayn’s neck to wallow in. He knows cold water isn’t what’s causing the male’s small tremors, but hot can only help in Zayn’s mission to bring Liam comfort. He thinks the same of the way his left hand calmly strokes up and down the other’s back, sometimes splayed out, and sometimes only a finger or two trailing along the skin. 

They stay like that for a while. Liam, never once bringing his face out of Zayn’s neck or removing his arms from around Zayn’s torso. And Zayn, not once stopping the movements, except to occasionally place a kiss atop the man’s head in an effort to tell him, ‘I’ve got you. You’re safe with me’. Eventually Liam does pull away when he’s tired himself out, wiping his eyes and running nose. The water coming down from the showerhead makes the tear and mucus stains indiscernible, but Zayn still lets him scrub them away with his hands regardless. The shampoo and soap get passed between the two of them soundlessly, Zayn ultimately getting out of the tub first in order to grab himself another towel from the linen closet. 

“Go get in bed,” he whispers once they’re both dry and in their boxer briefs. “I’ll be there in a second.” But before Liam can go off, he’s given a kiss to his side temple. 

Zayn grips the edges of his sink once he’s alone, unable to stare at his reflection and see how exhausted he most likely looks from the steam that’s yet to escape through the open doorway. In the five weeks he’s been off cigarettes, right then might’ve been the hardest test. To resist the strength of nicotine while trying to forget what Liam’s muscular build felt like quivering against his bare skin, is damn near impossible. When Zayn reaches for his green toothbrush, he does it with the intention to keep his mouth busy and away from doing something that would ruin the man in the next room even more than he already is. 

Liam doesn’t come asking what’s wrong when he’s still by himself after ten minutes, and it’s probably better that way. Zayn would rather not have to lie about why it is his gums are nearly bleeding from overstimulation. He’s quite pleased he doesn’t have to answer any questions when he shuffles under the covers, curling up right behind Liam’s frame. 

Several kisses are placed softly along the ridge of his left shoulder, the right pressed into the mattress. No unsteady breathing is coming from his boyfriend, so Zayn takes that as a sign that they’re in the clear for the night. He focuses on the dependable rise and fall of Liam’s chest that he can feel under the arm that’s curled around it, but the charm that Liam’s presence usually has on the nicotine cravings lingering in Zayn’s brain, isn’t strong enough tonight. The incessant brushing took the edge off, but it looks to Zayn like he’s going to need to rely on pure will to keep the longing under control. Whatever it takes. For as long as they’ve known each other, he’s always been the one receiving the benefits of Liam’s resilient character - helping him acclimate to a new city, introducing him to potential friends, staying patient when discussing his research, accepting his less than conventional hobbies. Now it’s Zayn’s turn to be strong for the both of them. 

But even when he’s at his lowest, Liam remains helpful. Because despite the fact that his body’s fully relaxed into sleep, he still supplies Zayn with a solid heartbeat to use as a secret weapon. 

NEETHGIE 

When Zayn was seventeen, his grandfather passed away. Since then, a few other aunts and uncles have left the family, but his mother’s father had the greatest impact on him. He’ll never forget coming home from school, being told the news that his beloved hero had lost his battle against cancer, and the static that followed, preventing him from experiencing the real world again for weeks. It was the first time Zayn had to acknowledge death, understand that no one’s really here to stay. Even after the funeral came and went, he continued to question what the purpose of everything was if it’s all fleeting. Only a few people in history get their names in textbooks, the rest go unnoticed, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. So why try? Why do well in school if his aspirations only consisted of opening the eyes of those unaware of how powerful art is? Why take a shower every day if your skin sheds itself anyway? Why fall in love when it was only a race to see who would die first and leave the other devastated, praying that the days would go by quicker instead of slower; they had no reason to wish for a prolonged life now that they were alone. He may not have been in the room when his grandfather took his last breath, but the pain and confusion that came from his passing made it seem as if he had been. Waking up the next morning to a heavy weight on his chest reminded Zayn of how punishing death can be to the survivors. 

“What time do you want to go to the lab?” 

It’s not the first thing Zayn says to Liam when he wakes far past his usual sunrise start, that was a simple “good morning love”. This is the fifth or sixth, spoken when he’s ready to accept whichever it gets him: a dejecting shrug, or his regular cheerful Liam. What he actually gets, is somewhere in between. 

“Soon. But first, can we just lay here a little longer? I’m still tired.” 

Zayn’s half-tempted to tell him that he’s been sleeping for almost ten hours, this must be a new record for him, but he’s just grateful that he doesn’t need to continue looking through articles on his phone on how to care for someone going through shock; Liam’s answering questions in full sentences again - that’s a good sign. Nevertheless, he still proceeds with caution, beaming when Liam congratulates him on making it sober for five weeks and helps put his patch on his shoulder blade where he alternates sticking them with the inside of his upper left arm, while continuing to make sure that he doesn’t take a mile just because he’s been given an inch. 

If it weren’t for Liam needing to take development notes and check chemical levels in his growth solvent, Zayn wouldn’t have even allowed for him to step foot in the building’s direction that day. Possibly the whole weekend, he’s not sure. But that can’t be, so he maintains a positive demeanor for the both of them from the moment they enter the white walled structure, to the moment they walk out an hour later. 

“What are we getting for lunch?” 

Straight away, Zayn feels relieved that he won’t need to do any convincing on getting Liam to come back home with him; he may be speaking a bit more, but there’s an odd distance to his tone when he _does_ talk that rubs Zayn the wrong way. 

“We can stop at the co-op on the way back and get stuff to make something,” he replies. “I need peppermint leaves too, don’t let me forget.” 

“Ok.” 

The entire walk - to the shop, around it, (where Liam doesn’t allow for Zayn to overlook the plant because he picks it up himself when they go down the produce aisle) and back to his flat - Zayn replays the previous day’s conversation about Liam’s newfound scientific beliefs, and compares it with the emotionless attention he gave his research that morning. At the time, Zayn had blamed the change of heart on clouded judgement, influenced by the misfortunate events Liam had just experienced, but watching the man go through his work routine like he wanted nothing to do with it. Like it was a burden to his day, rather than its highlight, worried Zayn that Liam truly believed what he had said. It was almost as if the Liam Zayn had come to know over the past two and a half months, the same one known to have more faith in science than Florence Nightingale herself, no longer existed. Seeing science fail, changed him, shook his confidence to the point that he’s started to side with the enemies in thinking that what he’s trying to achieve, isn’t worth his effort. Zayn could deal with nursing Liam through trauma and holding his hand through the grieving process, but he hasn’t a clue on how to come to terms with the possibility that the project he had chosen to write about because of its potential to change cardiology forever, is now run by a person who’s bitter towards holding an optimistic point of view. 

So, he keeps his thoughts to himself, heats them both a lentil soup, and joins Liam on the sitting room floor to continue with the marathon they’d started and Zayn wound up recording, the day before. He refuses to believe that the scientist next to him has revoked his medical certitude. Not when on the outside, he looks as normal as ever. Perhaps the red hoodie and black shorts that he changed into aren’t all that normal considering they’re Zayn’s, but Liam’s skin is back to its normal tone from a good night’s sleep, so it’s hard to connect what Zayn sees, with what he can’t. 

“Why do people watch this?” Liam asks as he fast forwards through the dating show’s overly produced title sequence for the fourth time that day. 

Amused by the contradictory words and actions, Zayn reaches his hand into the bag of Wotsits that sit between the two - a snack to bridge the gap between lunch and dinner. “We can put something else on.” 

But the reply falls on deaf ears as Liam frantically tries to stop the 2x speed before it’s too late and he misses the first real seconds of the show. Zayn tries to reassure him that, “it’s ok, you can always push back”, but that too goes without a response. Liam’s clearly done talking for a while. Not until Zayn takes a toilet break and returns with his Scrabble board an hour later, does he speak again. 

“You like Scrabble?” 

Zayn snorts while sitting back down on the hardwood in front of the coffee table. “Do I like Scrabble…” he says sarcastically, getting settled before lifting the box to the game and taking out an official Scrabble Dictionary. “You tell me.” 

“Are medical terms in there? Because everytime I want to play, people always quit when I start putting down scientific names for things. Which isn’t fair, since those are more accurate than the condensed, everyday versions.” 

Liam’s voice may not carry any inflection to it, but Zayn smiles nonetheless. Of course his genius of a boyfriend’s going to be the one that finally forces him to meet his match. And even though he wouldn’t ever dare deny Liam what he’s asking, he really should’ve prepared himself for the onslaught of triple word scores that the other had up his sleeve. It’s laughable really, the ways in which Liam manages to use the letter ‘x’, while simultaneously paying enough attention to the reality show in the background to know when to fast forward through the adverts, of which he hardly ever fucks up. Zayn gets his revenge after dinner though, rolling up his sleeves, and taking his time to perfect impressive plays like ‘jukebox’, which clears his rack, and ‘chastely’, that Liam never recovers from after it earns Zayn a solid 203 points. 

“It was close,” the younger man declares, taking out his toothpick and tossing it in the bin on the way to bed. 

“You only lost by one game. We can have another tournament tomorrow after you go to the lab.” 

Zayn barely gets a ‘good night’ after that. He does get a ‘good morning’, but that’s practically it until they arrive at the spot that upset him in the first place. 

For the second day in a row, Liam’s research gets the shaft. Somehow he manages to measure, test pH balances, and capture photos in even less time today. But unlike the day before, when Zayn’s being told, “alright, let’s go to my flat so I can change into my football stuff” after only forty-five minutes, he doesn’t hold his tongue. 

“Today’s day sixty,” he calls to Liam’s attention. “Shouldn’t you be starting that neurotransmission test today to see if they’re still working? I remember you saying that at the two month mark you’re going to make sure that growing in size didn’t ruin their ability to do what they would normally do attached to a heart.” 

“Well I’m not.” 

“Why not?” Zayn’s eyes follow Liam’s movements shutting down the desktop computer at his workstation and hanging up his lab coat. 

“I want to wait.” 

“But why?” 

“Because I just do,” Liam snaps. “I’ll see if they get any larger and then test them later.” 

It’s been obvious from day one that Zayn knows little to nothing about science, but he’s not entirely sure that’s how it goes - working on the researchers time and not going by the pre-planned schedule. Still, he’ll be damned if he’s going to bring that up to Liam, so he simply nods, tells his easily irritable sober hormones to cool it, and reverts back to making conversation for both of them. About his upcoming semester, the list that he’s finally narrowed down of publications that he plans to submit his final da Vinci write-up to, what he’s thinking about getting Harry for his birthday in the next couple of months. 

“It’s between some silicon baking mat he’s been talking about, or a book on how to make gelato, but I’m not sure he’ll sit down and read it.” 

“Get him the gelato book,” Liam says as he unlocks his flat door and walks in. “He’ll read it if someone gets it for him.” 

Gelato book it is. 

“Liam?” Niall’s Irish accent flows through the flat. “I was worried you were going to miss the game. You didn’t answer my text this morning.” 

Shoes kicked off, Zayn trails behind Liam on the way to his room, Niall popping out from the doorway of his own, gym kit on and everything. 

“Yeah, sorry,” Liam replies plainly. “I got distracted. Let me just get dressed and we can head out.” 

The man nods once in recognition, then again in greeting towards Zayn when Liam disappears into his room and closes the door. “He’s still not feeling good?” 

“You know?” Zayn asks, surprised that Liam’s managed to tell Niall anything about his less than perfect disposition considering he’s been out of Zayn’s sight for a total of an hour in the past forty-eight. 

Pointing down the hallway, Niall lets Zayn lead the way, out of earshot. 

“He texted me that he had a bad day at the lab on Friday night and that he’d be staying with you,” he tells him once they’re standing in the kitchen. “But I don’t know any of the details. When he didn’t show up yesterday or this morning, I figured it was probably pretty bad. Is his heart stuff ok?” 

“Technically.” Zayn stops to think about how much is his place to talk about. “He saw something pretty traumatic, so he’s kinda...out of it.” 

Niall takes a deep breath, “Thank god. I was expecting to hear the worst.” 

“I mean, he’s not all that excited about his work at the moment because of it, so just, I don’t know. Don’t bring it up for a while, yeah?” He looks to the other with pleading eyes, happy when he’s being given a stern nod as a promise, and even more thrilled when Harry and Louis swear to keep their mouths shut about work at the pub, where Zayn insists they go for the first time after football. A concept that’s more than confusing to Liam when he hears it come out of his boyfriend’s mouth. “We’re not going to watch superhero films?” “No, we’ve stayed in all weekend. Let’s go out and see your friends.” “I just saw them”. “ _Actually_ see them, not just kick a circular piece of rubber across a patch of grass to them.” 

“He hasn’t been like this since he broke up with that guy early last summer,” Louis says when Liam slips out the front door to take a call and leaves the four of them to gossip while they can. “What was his name?” 

“Dick,” Niall reminds him behind the counter, stacking up pint glasses. 

“His name was Richard,” Harry corrects him. 

“Yeah, so Dick.” After Louis downs what’s left of his lager, he motions for Niall to pour him another. “How could I forget? That was a four month goldmine.” 

“What happened?” 

To Zayn’s question, Harry sighs. “He was a dick.” 

“Tossed Liam around like a fucking rag doll until the lad realized he couldn’t fix him and called it quits,” Niall provides. 

“It was like his Mum knew he’d grow up to be a dick when she named him.” 

Louis’ comment earns him a swift hit to the arm by Harry. “Don’t go talking about his Mum like that.” 

“Ok, then while Liam’s gone, I’ll talk about how Niall cursed him.” 

“What?” The barman exclaims, eyes wide. “When the fuck did I do that?” 

“New Year’s Eve,” Louis says before tipping back his newly filled pint glass. “You wasted your yearly blessing on his eyesight and not his research.” 

“I was ten shots in. Surely that gets a pass?” 

“Don’t look at me,” Louis chuckles. “Tell that to his boyfriend who’s having to pick up the pieces from _your_ temporary memory loss.” 

Before this can go any further, Zayn checks the front door for any sign of Liam, then turns back to his friends. “No one cursed anyone, but he’s worrying me. I hate seeing him so dejected and shut down.” Zayn’s pointer finger runs around the ring of his whiskey glass. “And like, I know he’s not going to be like this forever- at least, I hope he’s not.” The thought scares Zayn to the core, so he shoves it down quickly. “But seeing him try and act like nothing’s wrong when he’s around you guys or the others on the team or people in the lab, kills me. He’s a horrible actor.” 

“He is,” Niall thinks aloud while checking the level of the beer kegs on tap. 

“At least when he’s alone with me, he doesn’t hide how miserable he feels,” Zayn divulges. “Except Friday, but that was because things were still fresh.” After taking a deep breath, he continues. “I thought he was getting better yesterday. He was talking more, and engaged a little better. Hell, he even gave me a run for my money at Scrabble for a few hours.” 

“Of course you two love Scrabble,” Louis quips with a shake of his head. 

With squinted eyes behind clean lenses, Zayn sips his drink, “We’re more than just our stereotypes.” 

“Do you love scrabble?” Louis asks vacantly. 

“Yeah, but-” 

“I rest my case.” 

Sour for being typecast correctly, Zayn goes back to coating his taste buds in Jameson. 

“We should all have a game night,” Harry proposes. “I haven’t played Scrabble in ages.” 

“If we’re gonna have a game night, we’re not playing something educational like Scrabble,” Louis argues. 

“Yeah,” Niall agrees. “I’m with Tommo. Harry’ll put up something like ‘vibey’ and argue for twenty minutes.” 

“What’s wrong with ‘vibey’?” The accused whines. “That’s a good one. It’s got the ‘y’, that’s got to be worth a lot of points. How many points is ‘y’ Zayn?” 

“Only four.” 

“That’s it?” Harry frowns. 

“Unless you put it on a multiplier space, then you can get a lot more for it.” 

“Yeah, see, this sort of shit is not for me,” Louis injects. “We’d need to play something like poker.” 

Harry throws out Pictionary as another option, and Niall, Monopoly. 

“I saw Liam’s got a Batman edition of Monopoly,” Zayn brings up. “He was a little peeved at me for not letting him go home to shut out the world with superhero films today, so maybe that’d be good for him.” 

“Nah, I don’t want anything involving too much maths,” Louis remarks. “You two play it on your own. I’m sticking with poker and Pictionary. Liam!” As he’s finishing his drink after having just rolled his eyes, Zayn turns to see his boyfriend heading back towards the end of the counter where they’re all sat. “Poker or Pictionary?” 

In an attempt to come across as normal, Liam pushes up his glasses and states his choice of Pictionary with a tight lipped grin, but Zayn can see right passed the smile. The crinkles around his eyes are missing, and when he tells Niall he’ll take a triple vodka, the Northerner’s stomach twists. This isn’t the circumstance in which he wants to see Liam drunk for the first time in. Except, Liam’s a grown man, twenty-six years old, and unless he becomes unruly, Zayn’s got no authority to forbid him from drinking if he wants to. Luckily Niall’s the one manning the shelf. Zayn catches him shorthanding Liam’s first order, and watering down the four mixed drinks that follow their brief dinner run across the street to Nando’s. Thankfully it’s only four, and while Zayn doesn’t condone turning to alcohol as a suppressant, he is grateful for the sleep aid that the liquor provides the man later that night. For a second, when the two were stripping out of their clothes to go to sleep, Liam opting for his flat as the place for them to lay their head so he didn’t have to endure a twenty minute bus ride tipsy, Zayn thought he might have to suffer through another of Liam’s breakdowns. Sat on the side of the bed nearest the window, his glasses on the side table, Liam hung his head in silence for long enough of a time that Zayn had to come up behind him and hook his chin over the other’s shoulder to press their cheeks together and feel for any tears. When he was met with nothing other than a dry, prickly beard, he wrapped his arms around Liam’s bare chest and pulled him back towards the pillows. Under the covers, after Zayn gets a real kiss, one that says more than Liam’s soft ‘thank you’ ever could, he’s left to think by himself. 

Soft, even puffs of breath hit the right side of Zayn’s neck, Liam’s head having claimed the spot as his own for the time being. They’re comforting in the way that a sleeping cat’s purrs might be, rumbling your lap where it lays, confirming that it’s safe and happy, even though it’s not presently with you. 

_Everything’s going to be okay,_ Zayn promises the man in his head. _I believe in you._

NEETENIN 

Cinema requirements: snacks. Dipping his hand into the newly opened bag of Wotsits, Zayn steals a few orange crisps for his troubles, water bottles right next to the food. Check. Comfort? A large steel grey throw blanket drapes over two of the most centered seats in the room. Check. Film? Dimmed lights? Behind him, the menu screen for the remastered 1978 Superman plays, at first under bright lights, then under none, then back again. Check, and check. Company? Slowly, one of the entryway doors opens, Liam’s head craning around the gap he’s created to make sure he’s in the right place, stepping through when his eyes land on Zayn standing at the front of the room near the large screen. Check. 

“Why do I feel like Louis’ going to pop out from behind something and scare me?” The man asks, cautious with his steps the entire walk to his boyfriend, looking out for the exact worry he’s just voiced. 

A chuckle escapes Zayn’s thin lips, “It’s only me. And Clark Kent.” 

Liam’s eyes follow up to the screen where Zayn’s thumb points before settling back on the male that’s now immediately in front of him. “What’s going on?” 

“What’s it look like?” Zayn grins, arms opened wide. “Your very own, personal cinema.” 

“It’s a lecture hall.” 

Zayn’s confidence falters, and the idyllic cinema that he’d been imagining every time he looked around the classroom, fades away at Liam’s blunt, yet real, observation. The rows of elevated seats aren’t plush leather, they’re wood, with one long desk that stretches from aisle to aisle, and the projector isn’t high grade, it’s only meant to support the colours of a powerpoint. But Zayn recovers quickly, picking up their guilty pleasure, and tilting the opening towards Liam. “So maybe it is, but I’ve got Wotsits,” he jiggles the bag. “And the key to this place, so no one can bother us. It’s way too late for classes, and too early for the cleaning crew.” 

Seeing the clock on the back wall read nine, Liam takes another look at the setup Zayn’s created for the two of them and squeezes out a smile. “I was really confused when you texted me to meet you here in only comfortable clothing. I thought I might be getting another lesson.” 

“I mean, I could.” All at once, Zayn’s mind goes into overdrive, completely disregarding his original plans and recalling the lecture he gave that morning, in this very room. “I’m not sure how much you’d enjoy learning about the apparatus of art history itself, but I can definitely go over it if you’d prefer.” 

“Don’t even know what that means,” Liam says, his smile becoming more authentic at Zayn’s aptitude leaving him blank. “But it’s been a long day, so I think I’d rather stick with the film.” Nicking the entire bag from Zayn’s grasp with one hand, he lifts his glasses up with the other, and leans in to press their lips together. “Thank you for this,” he says after, zipping his hoodie up a bit further, and then starting the climb up the aisle stairs to where Zayn’s blanket reserves their seats. “Am I going to need to get used to you making grand gestures often?” He asks once they’ve both settled into the middle row, Zayn having pulled up the armrest between them to allow for proper cuddling. 

A lazy boyfriend Zayn is not, but he doesn’t think he’s the type to win awards for how he loves others either. That average grey area that coloured most of the relationship spectrum, that’s where he’d place himself. “It’s my way of apologizing for not letting you indulge in superhero films on Sunday,” he confesses, leaving out the part where he also hoped to boost Liam’s spirits up that had remained low for the four days since then. “But Valentine’s day _is_ around the corner…” 

Two weeks to be exact, and while Zayn is clearly more than alright with supporting Liam through this crisis of his, he’s unsure what a romantic holiday like that would look like if the younger man’s still dragging his feet everywhere he walked. 

“We’ll do something great,” Liam promises, tone dry, yet convincing enough for Zayn to believe him. “And you know you don’t have to apologize for this weekend. It’s my fault.” 

“Nothing’s your fault,” Zayn insists sternly. “Ok? I don’t want to hear you say that. Now,” he presses play on the remote sitting on the desk space in front of him, sliding his hand back under the blanket when the room’s turning black, “just relax, yeah?” 

No response comes from the man next to him, but Zayn does feel Liam’s body do as it’s told and let Zayn’s take the brunt of its weight. For the past few days, small releases like this are all Zayn’s been able to go on when it comes to gauging Liam’s mental progress. He understands that being in a relationship means accepting people even when they’re at their worst, but he certainly didn’t expect to be acting as a shoulder to cry on so soon into one. Especially not one with Liam, the person who’s brought Zayn nothing but smiles ever since he walked in on him that day in Dr. Twickens office. But it’s a selfish mindset. Over the past month, Zayn hasn’t exactly been all rainbows and sunshine dealing without his smokes. There have been a few times where he broke under anxious stress and directed an unnecessarily snarky comment at the one person who didn’t deserve it, but was conveniently in the line of fire. Perhaps it’s not a healthy way to look at things, yet Zayn can’t help but wonder if he should attribute Liam’s optimistic charisma as the reason why he hasn’t recently given in to the petulance of his sobriety. There’s no room for crossness, not if he wants to create an environment that consists of nothing but positive energy for Liam to latch onto and use as his own. 

It’s an environment that Zayn’s been building around upbeat conversation, but also a lot of mindful physical contact as well. Liam’s to blame, letting him in on how much he loves that his body’s natural instinct is to always maintain contact with Zayn when they’re close enough to do so back when Zayn was still living in his New Year’s bliss. From then on, Zayn took notice of the innocent touches he was given: the knocking of shoulders, how their thighs were always pressed up against each other’s when they sat in booths, soothing fingers carding their way through Zayn’s hair mindlessly. Which they were doing now. 

Zayn leans into the touch, making shapes on the man’s left thigh where his hand’s been resting, to match the intimacy. Small circles and lines press lightly into the cotton of Liam’s joggers, no complaints coming until Zayn decides to get gutsy and try something. Just in case. Just in case the key to unraveling Liam’s stress is in Zayn’s fingers traveling up and over the space between his legs. But not even promiscuity puts the other at ease, Liam taking his arm away from Zayn’s shoulder and linking that hand with the cheeky one. “Not now, yeah?” Thankfully, Zayn’s comfortable enough with his boyfriend to not feel embarrassed by the rejection. But that doesn’t stop him from being more than confused when he’s being pulled onto Liam’s lap mid-way through the film’s credits rolling. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Liam says in response to Zayn’s raised eyebrows, a tired smile gracing his lips. “It’s not what you think.” 

Just seeing the candor behind Liam’s smile gives Zayn the confidence to know that he can get away with an inappropriate comment without needing to worry about triggering any negative repercussions. “You only have to say the word and it could be…” 

“I know,” Liam replies, grin widening ever so slightly. “You’ve made that abundantly clear.” 

Sturdy hands embrace Zayn’s hips, almost definitely because it’s the most comfortable of Liam’s options, but quite possibly because he simply needs to feel needed and does so by keeping Zayn safely in place. The thought makes Zayn take off his glasses, place them on the desk that’s caging him in from behind, and lean forward to nuzzle his nose against the man’s defining birthmark; arms wrap around his back automatically, holding him to their source closely. 

Minutes pass as both hearts beat against one another in the darkness. For Zayn, the position’s slightly uncomfortable, his back needing to slump down some, but he’s just so content with their shared peacefulness, that he can’t bring himself to move, even if it will take away the ache that’s starting to form. 

“Do you feel ok?” Liam’s voice sounds loud this close to Zayn, but he knows that it’d be quiet if anyone else was in the room to hear it. “With this?” 

Light circles are made around the part of Zayn’s upper left shoulder blade where a familiar patch lies under thick polyester. “No,” Zayn answers honestly, not wanting to move his face from where it’s buried and risk seeing the look of disappointment that Liam’s undoubtedly giving him for not voicing this sooner; for letting his own issues get in the way of others that are just as important. “It comes and goes in waves, but I don’t get the shakes anymore, and I’m getting better at not letting the irritation get to me. Obviously.” 

Forced away from Liam’s chest, Zayn stares at the man in front of him before realizing he needs his glasses to do so clearly, and reaches behind for them. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been this way to you,” Liam says, voice thick with emotion, mainly guilt, though some shame is laced in there too; he can barely look Zayn in the eye. 

“I know it’s not on purpose.” 

“No, it’s not. I just…” Staring at where Zayn’s playing with the zipper to his hoodie, Liam searches for words strong enough to match his disturbance. “I’ve been doing this - science - my whole life, and nothing’s ever made me question myself.” 

_Finality through death can do that to you_ , Zayn thinks. He could name a handful of art pieces that proved this, but he doesn’t. Liam didn’t need validation, just time. At least, that’s the story Zayn’s sticking to for his own welfare. 

“I know you want to,” he starts, “and it’s hard to come to terms with, but you can’t save everybody.” Instead of his anger getting triggered by the words, Liam sits listlessly, simply taking what Zayn has to say because he knows it’s the truth. “Maybe this is something that every scientist has to go through eventually, but no matter how long it lasts, I’ll be here.” 

Liam’s eyes finally look up, searching Zayn’s, the latter hoping that he’s not looking for signs of doubt, because that’d be a lost cause. 

“You don’t know how much that means,” the younger man replies sincerely. 

“It’s alright,” Zayn dismisses. “You can thank me by letting me sleep over at yours so I don’t have to ride the bus this late.” 

Liam nods, “Deal.” 

YTNEWT 

Another Monday, done. Well, at least the first and only class of the day. Now Zayn could technically do as he pleased, which typically meant just switching required work with not so required work. Namely his personal studies - the stuff he truly loved to throw himself into. Except, A]as he packs up his beloved leather briefcase, he’s reminded by one of his students the reason why he won’t be undertaking any other independent research projects that call for extended periods of time to be spent with departments outside of his own. “I heard from a friend in the music department that you’re collaborating on a project that’s involving them and Leonardo da Vinci?” After the school year ended in June, Zayn wouldn’t miss having to fake love for the electronic scene one bit. 

Complaining should be the last thing on his to-do list, however. He should be thanking his lucky stars that he slept in all those years ago and missed the chance to sign up as an Italian Renaissance specialist for his master’s course. If he hadn’t been chucked into his second choice of Avant-Garde, he would’ve never gone on to do the PhD that he had. The same one that had put him on Oxford’s map to begin with. Odds are, that the way he gets to indulge in his love for Italian art now, on his own terms, is much more beneficial in its richness. Should he want to start up an independent research project next year on Michelangelo when this one’s finished, strictly because he was in the mood to learn more about sculpture techniques, then he could do that, no strings attached. Life is weird in that way - how it can put you in a place you were meant to be, just in a completely different order to how you envisioned getting there yourself. Maybe if he’d gotten into the master’s track he wanted, he still would’ve made it to Oxford, but whenever that would’ve been, surely he wouldn’t have been welcomed to the city by the tour guide he now has; his gaggle of mates too. 

With the group on his mind, Zayn tries to remember what everyone’s schedules looked like for a Monday afternoon, barre Louis’. There was no way that a secondary school teacher could meet up on a weekday for lunch. Still, he’ll include him in the group text. But as soon as Zayn pulls out his phone from the front pocket of his briefcase, lunch is the last thing on his mind. 

**Liam Payne**

**(7) Missed Calls**

Panic grows as Zayn swipes at the notification and brings the phone up to his ear. It’s week three of the term, Liam knows his schedule by now to know that he’d be in class and his phone on silent. 

“Zayn! You have to come to the lab! Right now!” 

Liam’s voice doesn’t sound pained, yet it’s too galvanized for Zayn’s worry to be erased fully. 

“What’s going on?” He asks in a rushed tone. “Are you ok?” 

“I’m- I don’t know how I am.” Realizing how that must sound, Liam rephrases. “Physically, yeah, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just- you have to come.” 

There’s no time for Zayn to try and devise plausible reasons as to why Liam can’t complete his thoughts, he’ll do that on the bus uptown. “Ok, I’m leaving my class now. I’ll be there in twenty, thirty minutes.” 

But even on the ride to the hospital, Zayn can’t come up with an explanation as to what could get Liam into an anxious frenzy after being virtually braindead for almost a week and a half. By the time he reaches the medical center, he’s so crazed, that people in the halls probably think he’s followed in an ambulance carrying a loved one. Any looks he ignores, pushing the lift button hurriedly, and practically bursting through the research lab door when he gets there. 

Not a single body can be seen in the white room. It’s quiet, and he’s about to pull out his phone to call Liam once more, ask him what sort of game he’s playing and to let Zayn know what’s really going on, when he hears muffled voices. 

Taking a few steps into the room makes it easier to see that those speaking, are within the actual lab, behind the glass wall, huddled around Liam’s station. One of the researchers nudges another when they notice Zayn, Liam turning around and waving for him to come in enthusiastically. 

Because he isn’t met with any tears, rather a wide smile, Zayn takes the time to drop off his bag at Liam’s desk before picking up a guest lab coat and shrugging it over his jumper. When the door closes behind him, Liam steps away from the pack and approaches with a smile that leaves Zayn even more confused, although he can feel his lips start to twist up the longer he stares at Liam’s crinkled eyes. 

The question of “what’s going on?” gets lost in Liam’s chest when the man tackles Zayn in a hug so full of energy, that it nearly takes the two of them to the floor. 

“It worked!” Liam exclaims. 

“What did?” 

“The tests!” Following the minor clarification, Liam squeezes Zayn’s thin figure in joy. “I ran the first set of tests on the samples and they’re all working!” 

Before he gets snapped in half, and to gain some perspective to what he’s being told, Zayn pulls away from the embrace. “It’s only been a week since you told me you were going to wait and see if they grew any more,” he points out, mind still not caught up with his smile that’s just begging to be unleashed; not until Zayn gets things straight. “I came in with you yesterday before football. They weren’t that much larger.” 

“I lied,” Liam says like it’s no big deal. “I only said that so I could put off having to face my worst nightmare, but now I don’t have to because they worked! All the samples are functioning the same way they would be if they were still a part of their original heart!” 

Slowly, the realization of what Liam’s said comes into focus. “You did it?” Zayn repeats softly, his grin finally spreading across his face when Liam nods furiously. And this time, _he_ attacks _Liam_ with a hug worth a thousand words. 

There’s more to it than the passing of a few tests, of course Zayn knows this. Liam still needs to see if another heart will reject the tissue graft he’s grown like they’re prone to do with full transplants, and find out if it’ll heal the entire damaged heart or only some of it, but fuck. Liam’s made history with taking microscopic heart tissues and nurturing them to grow outside of a human body alone. Even if they fail in surgery, no other scientist has ever even come close to getting this far. 

Once the hype has worn down, or at least subsided enough that Liam feels like he can breathe again, Zayn corals the others for a celebratory dinner at a restaurant that inevitably kicks them out for being too rowdy. It’s how they wind up at Niall’s pub, where the manager announces “free drinks all night in celebration of Liam!” like he would charge them on any other Monday evening, Louis takes full advantage of it by ordering the good stuff, Harry arrives with a full chocolate cake that looks like he stole it straight from the bakery’s window display in the wake of telling the crew he’d be a few minutes after diner, and Zayn lets Liam finally get drunk. 

At its peaks, life can be downright exhilarating. 

“Can I have everyone’s attention?” Liam announces from atop the wooden bar, five shots into the night. 

While Zayn watches to make sure he doesn’t fall in his drunken stupor, Louis chuckles, “This oughta be good.” 

“Hey, hi! I’m Liam!” 

As if they’re welcoming him to some sort of weekly meeting, Niall and Louis respond with a monotonous, “Hi Liam.” 

“Hey!” The man replies cheerfully, before looking back at the crowd who’s now, for the most part, stopped what they’re doing to give Liam their attention. “I just want to say thank you. To everyone!” Zayn shakes his head with a fond smile, keeping an eye on Liam’s wobbly stance. “For believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself for a little bit there. Especially Zayn!” 

“Get on up there Zayn!” Louis shouts enthusiastically. 

_I’m not getting up anywhere_ , Zayn thinks as he shoves Louis back in response to the push of encouragement he got. 

“He’s the best boyfriend anyone could ever ask for,” Liam continues. “And he’s been there for me so much in the past couple weeks. He’s writing about me and my research for his own. But he’s not a PhD student, he’s a professor who does research on the side.” 

From below, Zayn grumbles, “I’m not a professor.” 

“He’s writing about me and Leonardo da Vinci.” Liam waves a hand, “It’s a long story, and I’m kinda drunk right now.” Zayn huffs in laughter when he hears Niall’s “kinda?”, said under his breath. “So I don’t think I can tell it, but it’s brilliant. You know, he’s a lot like da Vinci too. He’s an artist, and a thinker, and he likes to learn about a lot of different things even if art’s his favourite.” Liam takes a small pause, “I forgot where I was going with this…But I’d like to thank him!” 

All of a sudden, a huge amount of fuss is made at Zayn’s side. Louis’ starting it all with lots of hoot and hollering, followed by Niall and Harry’s thunderous clapping. It takes a second for Zayn to join in, still caught up in his endearment from the comparison made by Liam. 

“And he’s gonna be six weeks sober on Saturday too!” Liam adds. 

The applause from the crowd lessens as some of the patrons consider their atmosphere and the drink in Zayn’s hand. 

Zayn puts down his pint when he sees what they’re all staring at, “No, not- I quit smoking,” he reassures them, cheeks rosy with embarrassment at the misunderstanding. 

“Drinks for everyone,” Liam finishes with. “On me!” 

But a majority of the time, life’s boring. 

Monotony takes over from Monday through Friday, and a good portion of the weekends too, especially for someone like Zayn - an introvert who loves pastels. He’s just glad that he’s got a new group to be boring with. 

At around midnight, the pub starts to quiet down. A few students still occupy the dark corners in an attempt to escape their responsibilities for as long as they can, but the majority of the customers have made their way home. Louis and Niall talk about the upcoming rugby season, while Harry listens on silently. The chatter’s all that can really be heard apart from the mellow rock music playing somewhere in the background and Zayn’s keys that are being shoved back into his pocket after he needed to use the attached microfiber cloth. 

“Hey.” 

Liam’s about to take a bite from his second helping of cake when he hears Zayn’s voice to his left. He puts his fork down and pushes up his glasses attentively. 

“You remember a while ago, how I promised you that when Oxford finally felt like home, I’d let you know?” 

“Yeah.” 

There’s no need for Zayn to say what he’s thinking, the other can see it in his eyes. 

Liam takes one of the extra forks Niall left out, puts it on his plate, and slides the cake over so that it sits in between them. “Welcome home.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for giving this [not so] little fic a chance!
> 
> For those of you who try and guess which career/plot line will be seen in the next fic from hints given in the last, I used the entire teaching motif in Z.A.Y.N. [Zayn teaching Liam all about songwriting and Liam helping Zayn realize that he has it in him to write instrumental music (remember the Producing 101 with ‘Professor Payne’ reference?)] to transition to writing this AU that I've been sitting on! The next fic is definitely a BIG one in terms of the theme and ziam; I can already feel it taking a lot out of me, but give it a go in the comments if you think you can guess! If you want to skip the wait, check out my tumblr below!
> 
> Also, initially I fucked up with the survey link last fic, tisk tisk. But I’m still interested to see what people think about no explicit scenes being in a fanfic, so if you could take 10 seconds and click ‘it was fine’ or ‘I’d rather see smut’ [here](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdxeldDZhpa1KJrE2nhXPLVvbkmBXeaiYi0kddi-DNm5JeDFQ/viewform), that’d be useful. And for those of you that will click the latter - for plot purposes, THERE WILL BE AT LEAST ONE SEX SCENE IN THE NEXT FIC, I PROMISE
> 
> Click [ here](https://ziamhaze.tumblr.com/patreon) for my usual Behind the Scenes page for things like:
> 
> \- Inspiration photos incl. ziam outfits worn  
> \- Links to the art mentioned throughout incl. photos of the specific pages of Leonardo's notebooks I referenced  
> \- Video link to the Skins UK bath scene that inspired this fic's  
> \- All 50+ research links  
> \- Write up on Batman being a metaphor for Liam and his research  
> \- The next plot line information!
> 
> Feel free to spread the love through picspam [ here ](https://ziamhaze.tumblr.com/post/190826385770/ziam-ficrec-the-heart-of-him-by-ziamhaze) too.
> 
> Thank you all so much!


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